Margen
The 1:10 night bus makes a stop that doesn't exist. It isn't on the map, it has no number, and by day there is nothing on that corner but a blind wall and a huge plane tree. The shelter only appears under the yellow light of the street lamp, as if the lamp were projecting it.
No one ever gets on. People do get off, though: always silent, always looking like they are coming back from very far away.
Tonight I fell asleep and woke up right there, forehead against the glass. I rang the bell without thinking. The driver looked at me in the mirror one second too long, but he opened the doors.
It was my street. I didn't recognise it until the bus had gone: my front door, with the usual number and the landing light flickering. It is forty minutes away from that corner; today I checked the map, three times.
I haven't told anyone. But I'm no longer afraid of missing the last train: there is a stop that only exists at night, and it lets each of us off exactly where we need to arrive.