Arman guided his car out of the office parking lot, shoulders tight from the long day. He was about to pull onto the main road when he spotted a familiar figure standing at the bus stop across the street.
Beatrice.
She stood under the dim streetlight with her bag hugged to her chest, staring down the empty road like she was waiting for something that wasn't coming.
Arman glanced at the dashboard clock. Past ten.
He slowed, rolled down the window, and leaned a little toward her. "Are you okay?"
Beatrice flinched at the sound of his voice. "I'm just waiting for the bus."
He frowned. "At this hour? Buses stop running long before this."
She blinked at him, completely puzzled. "No, they don't. It's only nine fifteen. They run till ten."
"Beatrice," he said carefully, "it's ten. Not nine."
