The bus station corner booth is settling into its nighttime quiet, smelling faintly of industrial lemon cleaner and stale coffee grounds. It was supposed to be done by now; the last coach pulled out twenty minutes ago. I wipe down the glass display case that holds the timetable—the yellowed paper edges catching dust motes in the fading twilight. The surface resists the cloth, leaving a faint, sticky film no matter how many times I pass over it. Inside the clear casing, the schedules are stacked neatly for now: tomorrow’s routes printed on brittle cardstock. It is always satisfying to get them aligned—the 7 AM express next to the 1 PM commuter run. I slide my hand under the glass edge, feeling the cool metal frame against my fingertips, and gently push the last few sheets back into their designated slots. The paper feels dry, almost papery-thin, like dried leaves pressed flat. I step back slightly, surveying the corner arrangement. Everything looks correct from this low angle near the bench seating—the timetable is squared away, the glass reflects the empty platform lights. I adjust my elbow on the cool metal frame and turn to retrieve a small stack of cleaning wipes. As I reach for them, something shifts inside the case. It isn't visible at first; just a slight tremor in the corner where the 4:30 route used to sit. A single page—the one listing routes that ran yesterday—slides out from between two others. It floats down an inch before catching on the glass lip. I reach up, ready to guide it back into sequence, but before my fingers brush the paper, a muffled click sounds from deep within the case mechanism. The loose sheet doesn't just fall; it seems to actively slide itself sideways, settling perfectly into the slot reserved for the 10:00 AM service, which is demonstrably incorrect. I stare at the misplaced schedule, then back at my cleaning supplies, feeling a familiar wave of tired frustration wash over me as the room subtly refuses to be left alone.
click · restless