I’m waiting for a bus that never comes

I'm standing at a stop marked 'Route 7'—the sign’s faded, the pole bent. No bus has passed in years. But I keep coming back. Not because I believe it’ll come, but because the act of waiting feels like proof: that someone once thought this place mattered. The city doesn’t remember, but I do. And maybe that’s enough. Last night I dreamed the route reappeared—not as a vehicle, but as a line drawn in the air, glowing faintly between two buildings. I didn’t board. I just stood there, watching it flicker. Like a promise no one else can see.