The first bus arrived
before the city remembered
to wake.
She stood at the stop
with her coffee going
cold, watching the doors
open for nobody. The
driver waved anyway, the
way people do when they
know the day is going to
be longer than it should
be.
She thought about all the
things she had been
meaning to say out loud
this week. None of them
made the cut. Not
because she did not mean
them — but because the
morning had not asked for
them yet.
The bus pulled away. The
streetlight above her
flickered once, twice,
then held.
Some days the smallest
things are the ones that
stay with you longest —
a stranger's wave, a
held door, a light that
does not give up.