WHERE THE PURPLE BUS WAITS

By the fifth of December, Evan had already imagined the argument in his head three times. None of the versions felt right. In reality, it was worse, the voices crueler and stayed for longer. They were in his father's study, a room that smelled of old paper and wood that cost more than some of their staff's yearly salary. It was a room where decisions were made and lives were mapped out without a care of the people living in them. Since his mother's funeral six months ago, the house had felt colder. The woman they had buried hadn't been his biological mother, but she was the only one who had ever truly claimed him. She was the Chairman's official wife, the "Heartbeat of the House," and against all odds, she had loved Evan as if he were her own. She was the one who had finally whispered the truth to him about his birth mother's passing, a secret the Chairman had tried to bury in a shallow grave of NDAs and distance. Without her, the house was just a stoic, empty place. Money was mentioned, as it always was. So were the so called obligations and legacy. His father sat behind the heavy mahogany desk, silent and smoking a cigar, leaving the dirty work of "alignment" to his older siblings. His older brother, Jeha stood by the window, not even looking at him. "Family doesn't walk away, Evan," he had said, his voice as cold and flat like a board. Do you think you have the right to refuse father, after so many years of taking care of you?" A bitter laugh left his throat. "Hiding me for years in the US and refusing to let me know my birth mother until she was gone is 'care'?" "You should be grateful," his sister snapped, still focused on her work tablet. "Our mother was the only reason you weren't thrown to the streets." Evan's eyes moved to his father. Nothing. Not even a glance. "You're going to marry into the Kang Group," she continued. "It's already been decided." Just as everything else of his life has always been decided. The Chairman hadn't even bothered to give Evan a Korean name when he was born; he was simply "Evan," an English name destined for an English-speaking life, shipped off to the US as an infant to live with a paternal aunt who monitored his every move like a warden. He was an asset to be used when needed, nothing more. "I'm nothing to this family," Evan said, his voice finally steady. "And I refuse to be a trading chip for this family." "You are whatever Father says you are," his sister countered. "Without this family, you don't even have a name." Evan turned his gaze to the man behind the desk. "I never had one. He couldn't even be bothered to give me one, right, Chairman?" That got his attention. The Chairman finally lowered his cigar. He didn't look angry; he looked bored, which was worse. "A name is a gift for those who contribute, Evan. To me, you have always been an investment. A terrible one, it seems." He leaned forward, the smoke curling around his face. "You should be grateful I even took you from your wh*re of a mother. You are 30 years old and still crying for her like a little boy". "Leave," his father said, flicking ash into the tray. "Take two weeks. When you come back, you'll be ready for business." Two days later, Evan was on a plane. London had been the obvious choice. It was where his family expected and had frequented for business, a city where they knew his preferred hotels and the specific museums he visited. But after a week, even the capital felt exhausted. He spent seven days drifting through memorised streets and sitting in familiar cafés, answering messages from his only friend in the US with vague reassurances that he was "resting." He visited the famous t****k hotspots he'd seen online, but they felt hollow. Like everyone was performing a version of their life for an audience that wasn't there. The city moved loudly around him, alive with mid-December shoppers who probably knew exactly where they were going, unlike him. Evan felt like a ghost haunting a place that didn't know or need him. On the evening of the 14th, he stood in his hotel room with his coat still on, his case open at the foot of the bed. He hadn't planned to leave again, but the walls of the hotel were beginning to feel like the office back in Korea. He opened a map on his phone. His finger hovered, then dragged north. Past Manchester, Past Birmingham Too loud and visible, too easy to be found in. He wanted somewhere smaller. That was when he saw it. Nottingham. He'd never heard of the city and did a quick search, but the city itself felt vague, almost fictional. Curiosity stirred where boredom had been sitting for days. I've never been here, he realised. The train ride on the morning of the 15th was a relief. London blurred out into a smear of grey, replaced by quieter platforms and fewer announcements. When he stepped out into Nottingham, the air felt cooler and lighter. He wandered off of the train and followed the signs without thinking, letting his feet choose the path. The buses were lined up like a colourful deck of cards, each heading somewhere he most likely didn't know. He scanned the destinations until one caught his eye; Mansfield. The bus was a mix of vibrant and deep purple shades — a ridiculous detail, but it made him smile. Mum had always told him purple was the colour of royalty, as it was always striking and bold. He boarded with his suitcase, leaving the city behind. The ride was a slow transition. Urban brick gave way to thinning houses, wide grasslands, and the occasional flash of livestock in the mist. Then it thickened again. Streets widened, the pace slowed, and the damp, biting December chill began to settle against the windows. Forty minutes later, The Town of Mansfield greeted him. The town centre was smaller than he expected, calmer than Nottingham, and worlds away from the frantic energy of Seoul or London. Christmas lights were strung overhead, people moved unhurriedly, bundled in thick coats, their breath misting in the 5°C air. No one looked at him twice, not the commuters, not the shopkeepers, and certainly not the families probably heading home for dinner. Something in Evan's chest loosened. For the first time since the funeral, the sensation of being watched faded away. He walked without direction, letting the town reveal itself. There was no itinerary, no pressure. Just the cold air, the purple bus disappearing into the distance, and the quiet, terrifying freedom of being a complete stranger.