An old man moved to the space on the bus that met and mourned the comings and goings of travelers. He blends in. Wearing a sweat stained dark blue and gray baseball cap.  Off white chokka and lungi with twin sandels.  He holds onto the bus rail of chipping yellow paint and metal underneath. His skin is black and weathered and held at attention by the sun. He had two real eyes, and most of his teeth. Between the first finger and thumb of his left hand was a small small twig. Holding it though it were sacred and he had saved it from flying away. Like he would keep it long after the wind stopped playing in his hair, long after the bus ride.