The cigarette sat smoking on the ground long after the bus had gone. It rolled into a crack and smoked on. There was no one on the corner, but the cigarette sent up spirals of smoke.
It smelled like someone was smoking, when the next crowd came and waited for the next bus, but no one had a cigarette and the smell seemed to come from nowhere. The cigarette burnt down to the filter, spiral of saltpeter carrying the burn all the way down, and then it scorched the filter, puffing out a final puff as the brown paper curled black.
It was like a clue no one cared about, to a mystery interesting no one.