It was an evening in early spring and I was taking the slow bus home from my shift at the hospital. I gripped the metal rail in front with both hands and flexed each finger, noting a painful hangnail and resolving to trim it later. There were no other passengers and outside the sidewalks too were deserted. It seemed like the driver and I were the only two fools awake in the city. The bus pulled into each stop along the route, opening its doors to the swirling litter. Before continuing on our way, the driver would check his mirror to see whether I had decided at the last minute to get off. He looked faintly disappointed each time when I didn’t move from my seat. We paused at each empty stop for a few minutes and I imagined ranks of spectres filing on and off the bus, jostling for space and seats, and avoiding their warm blooded commuter. Then we were off again.

I was stifling a wide yawn (the long Sunday shift had taken its usual toll) when something red on the street outside danced in the corner of my eye. I looked over my shoulder and saw her, wearing the crimson coat she always wore. I wrenched frantically at the cord hanging above my seat and tore down the aisle to the front of the bus. The next stop was only fifty or so yards away, but the short distance seemed to stretch out like a cruel trick of perspective as we crawled to a stop. I gave the driver a dark look before leaping down the steps onto the sidewalk and I turned back up the street to see the tail of her long coat whip around a corner. She was heading for the abandoned house on Carrer Lleona, the place we’d imagined living, as a family, with our children. 

Inspired by Berta Vicente’s entry to the Sony World Photography Awards.