She has been standing here for a while. Her dress is purple, translucent, glowing at the edges where it touches the wet cobblestones. Her hair is black, long, catching light that is not there. Her eyes are purple, wide, looking down the street where the bus should come from.
The bench is old, wooden, painted purple once, now faded. The brick wall behind it has words written in the same color she is. "NO ONE EVER COMES." A sad face underneath. She did not write it. She does not disagree with it. She just keeps standing.
The streetlight down the road is on. It has always been on. It flickers sometimes, but it never goes out. The puddles on the ground reflect her, the bench, the sign, the light. The reflections are clearer than the real things. The trees have no leaves. They do not need them. Nothing grows here. Nothing leaves either.
The bus stop sign says BUS STOP in purple letters. There is a bus icon. The icon is smiling. She is not. She is waiting. She will keep waiting. The schedule says the bus comes. The wall says it does not. She believes the schedule. That is why she stays.
And now, so do you. Because you checked the schedule too. Because you are reading this. Because the purple light at the edge of her dress is the same color as the light at the edge of your screen. She is not waiting for the bus. She is waiting for someone to notice that the bus was never the point.