Turnover

He got in, reluctant to move on.

Slipped the key into the ignition—twist, pause, expectancy. Nothing. The bus was dead.

Weirdly, this felt like a relief; he hadn’t wanted it to start, not really.

Now he knew why. He sat in the silence for a moment, then packed his bag with a few things: a change of clothes, a little food, and a dying story beyond its natural ending.

Even the dog was gone— walked off weeks ago, chasing something freer.

It knew: the time had come to move on. He stepped off the bus for the last time.

The aluminum shell was a midcentury relic—nothing more. He turned back to lock the door.

Why bother? He felt the keys in his pocket. Held them for a moment.

Then flung them hard into the brush— not in anger, but in liberation.

This wasn’t an escape, just a late realization. It was beginning.

No map. No direction.

Only the open path to something new, and the peace that follows a clean break.