(miniflash story)

It always arrived at 00:07 — never earlier, never later. No one at the terminal seemed to notice it. The driver never spoke. The doors hissed open, and people like me — those who couldn’t sleep, those who had too many thoughts or none at all — stepped inside.

That night, I sat by the window. The city faded behind us, swallowed by fog and neon halos. We drove through streets I’d never seen, yet they felt familiar — lined with clock towers ticking backward and lamp posts that bent slightly as we passed.

A man in a worn suit read a book that had no words. A girl carried a fishbowl with no water but a sleeping goldfish inside. The bus made no noise. Even our breathing seemed borrowed.

And then, just as the moon dipped beneath a horizon of chimneys and spires, the driver glanced at me through the mirror. He didn’t smile, but somehow I understood: we’d arrived.

I stepped off not knowing where I was — but knowing it was exactly where I needed to be.