The Last Stop

 Here's a fiction in 58 I penned at lunch: 

Everyone knew about The Last Stop, yet no one could prove it existed. 

Between 2 and 2:12 a.m., its neon sign flickered alive on Route 287. Truckers ordered pie. Widowers drank coffee with people they'd lost. 

At 2:13, the building up and vanished. 

By sunrise, only tire ruts remained, and a smell of bacon lingered.