Your choice changes what happens next
The last boarding
At eleven forty-one on Monday night, Esra climbed aboard the last red bus in Darsen with a cardboard portfolio under her arm. Tomorrow at nine she would show her stage designs at South Hall. Tonight she was helping her grandfather Balin move a blue suitcase to her aunt's flat. He had packed seventy-two years of life into rather more boxes than that, but insisted this particular case travel with him. It contained his good sweater, a tin of biscuits and a brass doorbell he had never liked.
The driver, Senn, watched them settle into the front seats. This was the old bus's final service, not hers; on Tuesday she would be assigned a white one whose doors made an apologetic noise. "Last chance to object to the upholstery," she said. Balin patted the cracked green seat. Esra asked whether Senn would miss it. "Ask me after the heater stops smelling of toast." There were no other passengers. Senn turned the destination roller, which continued one click beyond its usual stop.
The word TOMORROW appeared above the windscreen. At the next corner, Darsen disappeared. The bus rolled onto a white causeway beside water so still that the wheels seemed to turn inside it. Beyond an island depot stood a harbor in pale daylight. Behind them the city was still dark. Senn braked, then tried the reverse lever. It answered with a musical twang and remained stuck. A young man carrying a lantern emerged from the depot. He looked at the destination and said, "Oh. They never removed that one."