The sodium lamp cast a dull, yellow wash over the shelter. It was late enough that only the cleaning crew remained, and I moved along the perimeter of the bench seating. My flashlight beam caught the corner support post first; the paint here had flaked off in sheets, revealing raw, grey wood underneath. A faint smell of ozone mixed with wet asphalt hung low to the ground, a scent that always accompanies this time of night after the last bus has left. I knelt down near the cracked yellow vinyl pad, brushing away grit and dried leaves. The surface was damp in patches, reflecting the sickly glow of the lamp like scattered oil slicks. From the overhead gutter drain, water dripped—a steady, predictable rhythm that marked the passing minutes. I pulled out my clipboard and checked off the seating area section. Everything looked generally stable, save for a discarded newspaper near the base; its corners were soaked through, making it curl up like brittle paper wings. I stood back to survey the whole setup, resting my hand briefly on the cool metal support post. It was then that I glanced at the timetable sign mounted high on the wall. Despite the actual time being nearly midnight, the digital display glowed with a fixed reading: 10 minutes past the hour. The drip continued its slow count against the quiet backdrop of the empty street. I marked the section complete and folded the clipboard shut, leaving the persistent ten-minute mark to settle in the damp air.
click · calm