The bus didn't come.
Emma Carter glanced down the street for the third time in five minutes, clutching her jacket tighter around her. Cold wind snuck through the thin fabric, biting her arms as her sneakers tapped the cracked sidewalk in restless rhythm. She wasn't even supposed to be late today. She'd left ten minutes early.
But the bus… the damn bus.
Her breath puffed out in frustration as headlights finally rounded the corner. Her relief was short-lived when she saw the route number.
Wrong one.
Emma cursed under her breath, checking her phone. 7:42 a.m.
Her shift started at 8:00. It took exactly twenty-one minutes from here to the diner if traffic behaved. Which it never did.
She was going to be late.
Again.
By the time the right bus finally arrived, she was a jittery mess. She climbed aboard, flashed her pass with a tight nod, and sank into a seat near the back, her fingers twisting the strap of her worn-out tote. Inside was her uniform — wrinkled but clean, packed between her phone charger and the bottle of painkillers she kept for her grandmother's arthritis.
The bus rocked forward. Emma stared out the window, her reflection pale and anxious in the glass. Tired eyes. Windblown hair. Lips chewed raw from habit. Her phone buzzed in her lap.
Cass (Manager): If you're not here by 8, don't bother.
Emma winced.
By the time she jogged through the diner's back door at 8:12, Cass was already waiting, arms crossed and mouth tight.
"You're late."
"I know, I—"
"Again."
"I swear, the bus—"
Cass didn't need to say anything. The look said it all. He'd given her too many chances. Emma knew it. She was lucky to have lasted this long. The diner didn't run on apologies and sad eyes.
"You're good with people, Emma," he said finally, shaking his head. "But I can't run a business like this. Not with no-shows and late starts. I'm sorry."
The words landed like a slap.
"But—Cass, please. I need this job."
"I need employees who show up."
He turned and walked back into the kitchen. Just like that.
Just. Like. That.
Emma stood there, dumbstruck. The fluorescent lights buzzed above her like mocking laughter. One of the line cooks gave her a sympathetic shrug. Out front, a group of regulars hooted as she passed, one of them winking with a coffee-stained grin.
"Late again, sweetheart?"
"Maybe if you smiled more, boss wouldn't be so mad!"
She didn't respond. She didn't trust herself to.
Outside, the wind hit harder. Emma walked with her chin tucked low, hands shoved in her pockets, blinking hard against the sting in her eyes. She wasn't going to cry. Not here. Not in front of traffic and strangers and cat-calling construction workers.
It wasn't the first time she'd lost a job.
It just couldn't happen now.
Rent was due. Grandma's prescriptions were running low. And the clinic had started calling — politely, so far — about the overdue bills.
She turned down a side street to take the long way home. The crowded roads always made her feel worse. But even as she tried to clear her head, that feeling returned.
That strange, heavy sensation. Like someone was watching her.
She slowed slightly, eyes scanning the quiet buildings. Nothing. Just parked cars and faded brick walls. A man passed by on his phone, not even glancing her way.
Still… the feeling lingered.
It wasn't the first time, either. It had been happening for months. Maybe longer. That prickling awareness just under her skin, like eyes on her back. In the grocery store. At the laundromat. Walking home after late shifts.
Always there.
Always vanishing the second she turned around.
She shook her head and kept walking. She didn't have time to be paranoid. Not when real problems were piling up like bills on her kitchen table. Stalkers and strange feelings belonged in bad crime shows — not in her very real, very messy life.
But still…
She glanced over her shoulder one more time.
Nothing.
Just the wind, the city, and her echoing footsteps.