Hey Brian

The old bus stop sat at the edge of town, paint peeling like sunburned skin and the timetable long since bleached into unreadable paper. Every Thursday at sunset, Brian would stand there with his hands deep in his coat pockets, waiting for a bus that no longer ran. People assumed he was odd, or nostalgic, or simply lonely — but Brian never explained himself. He watched the road the way sailors watch the horizon, eyes steady, expecting movement in the stillness.

One evening, a shape appeared on the far end of the highway — not a bus, but a person in a red coat, walking with purpose. As she reached the stop, she smiled like she had been gone only a day. “Hey, Brian,” she said, her voice soft but sure. And for the first time in years, Brian smiled back. The town didn’t know who she was or why they embraced like old promises, but from that night forward the road seemed less empty, and Brian no longer waited alone. The bus never came, but something far more important finally did.