Flash Fiction

She awoke with a start in the smaller hours of the morning. Although it was devil dark she did not turn on the lights. It was a sector wide ordnance. It was strictly enforced. Rising from her bed she wrapped herself in her warmest dressing gown. The city's heating had failed again and it would snow soon. When she lit the flame beneath the battered kettle it provided enough light for her to complete the makings. At least the gas supply remained constant. Having made her pot of tea she took it on a tray, over to the window. Holding aside the curtain with her elbow she placed the tray on the small table in the cramped window bay. She picked up her notebook and pen from the ledge. The trolley bus was there, with it's sole passenger. She checked her notes. This was the fourth time she had recorded it. Always with a lone passenger.

She had asked at the depot, no one had heard of the bus number. Two weeks ago, after the last sighting, in her lunch hour she had gone to the garage. No one knew of it's plate number. Tonight she determined that she would make a detailed description of the driver. Although she was confident it was the same passenger, he stayed in the shadows. From the vantage point of her second floor window and the dim light from within the bus she could observe openly. It was her role, a natural detail taker. It helped pay her bills. But the bus rattled away before she completed her task. No matter she would complete it next time. she was certain there would be a next time.

It was then, as the bus trundled away down the lonely road, that she realised that she always awoke with a start before the trolley bus appeared.