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At the depot after midnight the lost-property drawer keeps its own weather. Rain comes in on sleeves. Cold coins. A glove with the fingers turned inside out. I sort by route, then by what the form can hold: keys, spectacles, umbrella. The dispatch sheet is open. Its carbon copy says: ROUTE 6 / ARRIVAL 23:40. The driver takes the signed original. The blue counterfoil stays with me. Tonight both are here, the initials box empty. The board went dark at twenty past eleven. Rain erased the bay numbers. I remember the last headlight turning before the gate. The supervisor says close the discrepancy by Friday. I press the two sheets together: one clean, one blue; both carrying the same hour. My pen stops above the initials box. At 23:40 I was at this window. I heard rain, not brakes. I leave it blank. Clip both copies to next week's sheet. Outside, the first bus starts. Its destination sign is still dark.
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