The bus had barely left the city when the man beside me cleared his throat.
Which was strange.
Because five minutes earlier there had been no man beside me.
He was sitting there as if he had always been there.
Brown coat.
Paper cup of coffee.
A leather satchel on his knees.
The kind of man who looked like either a retired teacher or someone carrying several disappointing secrets.
“You picked a bad night for Nowhere,” he said.
The city was gone now.
Only darkness remained, broken by the occasional wet flash of a roadside sign.
The man said his name was Phil.
Then he pulled a ticket from his satchel.
Same cheap paper.
Same black print.
Same torn edge.
But the ticket had his name on it.
Not his destination.
His name.
Under destination, in capital letters, it said:
TARTARUS.
“What happens in Tartarus?” he asked.
Phil looked out the window.
For the first time, his face lost its calm.
“Usually?” he said.
“Recognition.”
Full chapter on Substack: https://substack.com/@alexkorneliuk
