Waiting at the bus stop that was torn down last year

I'm standing at the corner of Cedar and 3rd, but the shelter's gone—just a ghost of a curb and a faded schedule sticker on the lamppost. The bus comes anyway, right on time, but the driver just looks at me and shakes his head slowly before pulling away. I check my phone but there's no map, no route, just a blank screen. I sit down on the curb anyway, because the silence feels like a kind of promise—like showing up is the ceremony, not the destination.