The Bus Stop

I sat at the bus stop bench, kicking rocks into puddles left after the midday rain. Petrichor lingered. Behind me, the last train for the day was leaving the station. Its windows shone red with the reflection of the evening sun. The last three people exited the station and walked towards the village. Lucky them. I thought, considering the drudgery I would have to undertake if I wanted to get home on foot. 21:30. Bus in five minutes. I realized as I poked my head out of the bus stop to look at the train station clock. On the other side of the street, a convenience store clerk set a headless mannequin in the window. It held discounted cornflakes.

Still no bus. No cars on the road anymore. The clerk was closing the windows and lowering the grates for the night. He strode to the village. Even the birds are sleeping. I thought when I realized I didn’t hear them anymore. I looked at the dark hill where I would need to go if the bus didn’t arrive. Steep. Not a single street lamp. The view is beautiful, but I have to move out. I looked at the train station clock again. 21:30. Do they turn it off for the night, too? At least, they don’t roll up tracks and roads. The mannequin opened the cornflakes, held a few in its hand and raised them to where its head would be.

The sun hid below the horizon. I don’t know how much time I spent staring at my heavy backpack, wondering if the automated luggage storage boxes outside the train station work at night. I could leave it. Walk home and return tomorrow on a bike. I need to move out to a proper city. Or at least, down the hill. I thought, looking at the village houses and the yellow lights in their windows. I looked down the road once again. Not a single car light. The mannequin went somewhere inside the store. The train station clock still read 21:30.