At 11:40, the terminal looks less like a station and more like a waiting room for unfinished days. Fluorescent signs blink above half-closed shops. The last bus arrives with its own weather of diesel, warm metal and tired conversation.
A different map appears
Without traffic, distances change. A hospital worker counts stops by memory. Two students rehearse tomorrow’s presentation in whispers. The conductor knows which corner needs an extra pause even when nobody asks.
By the final stop, the city has rearranged itself around people who keep it running while most windows are dark.