Tram 28 – Part 1: The Last Run

Inês rode Tram 28 every night at eleven, from the hospital to the top of Graça, and every night the same driver nodded to her in the little mirror above his head.

His name was Rui. She knew because it was stitched on his jacket. He was thirty-four, with grey in his stubble and a habit of humming fado under his breath on the steep bits.

"Long shift?" he asked, on a Tuesday, as the tram groaned up the hill.

"Twelve hours."

"Then you deserve the seat by the window."

"I always take the seat by the window."

"I know," said Rui. "I keep it free."

She looked at the back of his head, and felt her face warm. The tram rattled past shuttered bakeries and washing lines strung between balconies. At the steepest corner there was a flicker, a loud click, and every light on board went out.

The tram stopped. Outside, the whole street was dark.

"Power cut," said Rui, calmly, and turned round. "Sit tight. It will come back in twenty minutes. Or an hour. Lisbon is not a hurried city."

He lit a small torch and set it on the dashboard. In the soft yellow glow, the empty tram looked like a room in a very old house.

"Can I ask you something?" said Inês.

"Yes."

"Why do you keep the seat free?"

Rui considered the question seriously. "Because you are the only person who says good night to the tram," he said. "Every night. Out loud."

"I did not know anyone heard."

"I hear everything. It is a very quiet job."

She laughed, and he laughed, and the torch flickered, and the city held its breath outside.

"Green?" she asked, before she could stop herself.

"Green," said Rui. "Very green. Come and sit at the front, Inês, and I will show you the best view in Lisbon."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Best View.