"Yikes," Oscar grimaced.

"Took forever to heal. Couldn’t play for months. By then, they’d replaced me, and one by one, the team forgot I ever existed," I sighed.

"Didn’t you try to go back to basketball after you healed?" the kid asked.

"No." I shook my head. "I was too angry at everyone back then. Didn’t want anything to do with them. Basketball was over for me—and so was any desire to stand out."

"But you became an artist," the boy pointed out. "That makes you stand out too."

"By then I’d learned not to let anyone smother what I wanted," I said. "That’s the whole point of living, isn’t it?"

The crow let out a loud caw and took off. Its wing seemed fine now as it flew away confidently, still cawing in the distance.

"Guess it wanted to thank you," the kid smiled, watching it go.

"For what?"

"Maybe it just needed someone to believe in it."

"You and your weird theories, kid," I laughed. "It’s just a bird."

"If you say so." He pointed behind me at the bus stop’s covered section. "What do you think was posted there before?"

I glanced at the torn remnants of paper still clinging to the metal frame, fluttering slightly in the breeze.

"No idea. Apartment listings, probably. The usual stuff."

"Zero imagination," Oscar clicked his tongue. "And you call yourself a creative."

"Who cares?" I sat back down on the bench, which creaked ominously under my weight.

"Come on," he persisted. "I always look at those when waiting for the bus. Sometimes there’s something cool."

"Like what?"

"Like… selling vintage dolls or buying up old jewelry," he said.

"And what's so interesting about that?" I crossed my arms.

"Aren't you curious why someone would sell a doll their great-grandmother played with? Or some old ring? There's gotta be a story behind it."

"Kid, you're seriously bored," I shook my head.

We'd been sitting at that stop for over an hour. Nothing had changed—no cars passed, no birds landed. The scenery burned itself into my memory like a dried-up tumbleweed. Leaning back against the sunbaked metal, I picked at a stubborn scrap of paper from some long-gone notice. Then the kid's earlier words echoed in my head:

"And you call yourself a creative."

"How'd you know I'm an artist?" I asked.

"It's pretty obvious you're into art," the kid mused after a pause. "You look at the world like you're sizing it up. Stare at trees forever while most people wouldn't even notice a weird branch. Only two kinds of people do that—clueless dreamers or real-deal artists."

"You're too sharp for your age, kid," I smirked.

Memories flashed through my mind—my early days as an artist. That fall when I first dared show my paintings to the world. Broke as I was, I'd painted mini-versions on flyers and plastered them around the neighborhood, scribbling my address so curious folks could see the real pieces.

People came. Not just the next day, but for weeks after—all sorts. Some just wanted to gawk, others to meet "the artist," a few even bought my work (which, hell, felt good). Later, I had to fork over half those earnings to pay fines for illegal postering. The city called it "aesthetic pollution"—never mind that ugly billboards and overflowing trash bins ruined the view way worse than my art ever could. But who was I to argue with the system?

"What're you thinking about?" The kid snapped me out of it, handing me a water bottle.

"Nothing important," I said, taking a swig. "That bus isn't coming today, is it?"

"It'll come. Definitely," Oscar said, weirdly earnest. "Just gotta be patient."

"Patient…" The word tasted bitter. "Always fucking waiting."