The night was colder than usual.
Not the kind of cold that hurts immediately, but the kind that slowly settles into the skin, as if the air itself had forgotten how to hold warmth.
The man stood at the empty bus stop, hands in his pockets, watching his breath fade into the dark.
There were no other people.
No cars passing.
Only the faint glow of a streetlight above him, flickering slightly as if it was struggling to stay awake.
⸻
The bus arrived without sound.
He only noticed it when it was already there.
A long, dark vehicle pulling up slowly, its headlights weak and tired, like it had been running too long without rest.
The doors opened.
No announcement.
No destination sign that felt clear enough to read.
Just a soft mechanical sigh.
⸻
He stepped in.
The air inside was warmer, but not in a comforting way.
More like it had been trapped for a long time.
He paid the fare and walked down the aisle.
The bus was mostly empty.
A few scattered passengers sat in silence, each one looking in a different direction, none acknowledging his presence.
⸻
He chose the last seat.
Near the window.
Away from everyone else.
⸻
The bus moved again.
Slowly at first, then steadily, as the city outside began to blur into streaks of light and shadow.
He leaned his head slightly against the glass.
Cold pressed through it, but he didn't mind.
It gave him something real to feel.
⸻
Outside, the streets looked quieter than they should have been.
Too empty for this time of night.
Even the traffic lights seemed slower, like they were thinking before changing color.
⸻
He exhaled softly.
It felt like the world was finally shutting down for the night.
⸻
Then the bus passed the first stop.
No one got on.
No one got off.
But for a brief moment, he thought he saw someone standing there.
Not moving.
Just waiting.
Watching.
⸻
He blinked.
The figure was gone.
⸻
The bus continued forward.
The road stretched longer than it should have.
Or maybe it was just the night making everything feel further away.
⸻
He adjusted slightly in his seat, letting his eyes drift toward the front of the bus.
The driver didn't turn around.
Didn't speak.
Just kept driving into the dark.
⸻
And then, very quietly—
a thought crossed his mind.
Not loud.
Not clear.
Just there.
⸻
This bus felt like it was not going anywhere specific.
Not really.
Like it had forgotten where "somewhere" was supposed to be.
⸻
He looked out the window again.
The city was still there.
But it no longer felt familiar.
⸻
And somewhere deep inside the quiet, he noticed something he couldn't fully explain yet—
⸻
the night felt like it was waiting for something to begin.