Night's Breath in Amber

Deep night in Jeju City. The bus smells of wet jackets and vinyl. Tires hiss against the road. The engine hums beneath the murmur of passengers. Fog on every window.

Amber light curls into corners, glossing over the seats that creak softly with each stop and start. Bags crinkle. Someone shifts in a seat two rows back.

The city beyond the glass slides by, blurred in damp neon reflection. Streetlights smear and re-form as the bus takes each curve. I sit among the quiet riders, their reflections faint in the glass. At every stop, the doors exhale, and the bus holds still until they seal.

As the bus rounds a corner, I reach for the ticket in the holder by the window. It is still warm. No one has sat here since I boarded, and the seat beside me has been empty the whole ride. I turn it over—blank on both sides—and set it back where it was.