At the ninth stop, Jiang He noticed there was no sea outside.
The guide on her phone was clear: ride Coastal Road to the end and find the lighthouse. She showed the driver.
“Last year's route.”
“This one?”
“West Station.”
Three percent battery. The white lighthouse in the photograph remained bright, like something good unrelated to her.
She was the only passenger. A sun-faded sticker behind her requested considerate travel. Moving her suitcase from the wheel arch, she tipped it and caught a wheel beneath a seat.
At a red light the driver asked, without turning, whether she was visiting.
“Interview.”
“Finished?”
“Finished.”
He asked no more.
West Station was smaller than expected. A few overhead lights; a convenience shop's shutter halfway down. As she stepped off, he reminded her to check her phone and belongings.
Two percent. Her father's message topped the screen: “Which train? I'll collect you.”
She wrote, “Tomorrow.”
An unsent paragraph had waited since afternoon. The interview had failed. A job she had talked about for half a year had ended in little more than ten minutes. She moved the cursor and deleted a full stop.
The driver came down with his lunchbox and found her by the stop.
“Seats in the waiting room.”
“I wanted the sea.”
“Now?”
She nodded.
He looked at her suitcase. “Still a journey from here. Leave it tonight.”
She enlarged the blue line on a map that was no longer helping.
“Even your buses have to change around here.”
She heard the unfairness immediately. He had his lunchbox under one arm and a key in the dispatch-room door. He paused, then opened it.
“Charger?”
She found a tangled cable.
“Socket inside.”
Route sheets covered the wall, the new one only half concealing an old one with curled corners. A receipt sat beneath a travel mug's lid. He microwaved dinner; five minutes, and two forms still to complete.
She charged her phone on a stool by the door. Food turned behind the lit glass. She had eaten half a bread roll at noon. The remainder, wrapped in paper, had been flattened by the suitcase zip.
Finishing his first form, he noticed her studying the routes.
“Want the old one?”
“Did you drive it?”
“Yes. Roadworks near the lighthouse. Changed twice. Terminus moved later.”
“Could you see it when you got off?”
“Still had to walk. Photos online never show that bit.”
She smiled. For the first time today, a sentence did not require her to explain herself immediately afterward.
He took out two pairs of disposable chopsticks, then returned one. She produced her bread and said she had food.
They ate separately. His daughter called to ask about her milk tea. He was coming home, he said. Not hot tea, she reminded him.
“Your daughter?”
“Yes. Had words today.”
“About?”
“Nothing much. Didn't understand what she meant. She didn't like what I said.”
He shut the empty box and stood to turn off the light. Her phone could now stay awake.
“I'm going to the junction. You?”
“Find somewhere to stay.”
“Street outside still has lights. Ask the price before paying.”
They left the yard together. Behind the descending barrier, the bus rested with “West Station” still illuminated.
At the junction he went left; she needed right.
“Lighthouse is there by day, too.”
“Were you going to say it's not worth a special trip?”
He laughed. “I didn't say that.”
She waved. Her loose suitcase wheel rattled through the paving joints. A dozen meters on, she stopped and opened her father's chat.
The paragraph remained. She removed “Don't worry” from its beginning. The rest was no easier to say, but could finally be sent.
He replied with a question mark, then “Have you eaten?”
She photographed the bread paper.
He called while she searched for lodging signs. First, the repaired village road; then the tight front-door lock she should not force on returning. Only after a while did he ask what time she wanted to come back.
“No ticket yet.”
“Don't buy it yet. Sleep first.”
She entered a small place with plants by the door and asked for a single room. The woman quoted a price and offered a registration pen. Jiang He steadied the suitcase and freed a hand.
No sea outside. At the corner, steam rose from a noodle pot into the light.
After checking in, she decided, she would have a bowl.