Taxi -

"I know where you’re going," the driver interrupted softly. Elias froze. "I haven't told you yet."

They talked for hours. By the time they walked out together, the rain had stopped. Elias looked toward the curb, but the yellow cab was gone. Only a small, peppermint-scented card lay on the ground where the car had been parked. "I know where you’re going," the driver interrupted softly

The rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the neon signs of the city into long, glowing streaks of red and blue. Elias pulled his collar up, shivering. He had just finished a double shift at the library, and all he wanted was his bed. But the buses had stopped running an hour ago. By the time they walked out together, the rain had stopped

The car turned down a street Elias didn’t recognize—a narrow cobblestone alley lined with shops that looked decades out of date. Before Elias could protest, the taxi slowed to a crawl. Outside the window was a small, brightly lit bakery. Through the glass, Elias saw a woman sitting alone at a table, a single cupcake with a candle in front of her. She looked devastated. The rain was coming down in sheets, blurring

He climbed into the back seat, which smelled faintly of old leather and peppermint. The driver was an older man with silver hair and a cap pulled low over his eyes. He didn’t ask for an address. "Long night?" the driver asked, his voice like gravel. "The longest," Elias sighed. "I'm heading to 42nd and—"

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. His eyes were kind but incredibly tired. "Most people think they choose their destination. But sometimes, the cab chooses for them."

"That’s Sarah," the driver said. "She’s celebrating her first birthday without her father. He used to drive this cab."

"I know where you’re going," the driver interrupted softly. Elias froze. "I haven't told you yet."

They talked for hours. By the time they walked out together, the rain had stopped. Elias looked toward the curb, but the yellow cab was gone. Only a small, peppermint-scented card lay on the ground where the car had been parked.

The rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the neon signs of the city into long, glowing streaks of red and blue. Elias pulled his collar up, shivering. He had just finished a double shift at the library, and all he wanted was his bed. But the buses had stopped running an hour ago.

The car turned down a street Elias didn’t recognize—a narrow cobblestone alley lined with shops that looked decades out of date. Before Elias could protest, the taxi slowed to a crawl. Outside the window was a small, brightly lit bakery. Through the glass, Elias saw a woman sitting alone at a table, a single cupcake with a candle in front of her. She looked devastated.

He climbed into the back seat, which smelled faintly of old leather and peppermint. The driver was an older man with silver hair and a cap pulled low over his eyes. He didn’t ask for an address. "Long night?" the driver asked, his voice like gravel. "The longest," Elias sighed. "I'm heading to 42nd and—"

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. His eyes were kind but incredibly tired. "Most people think they choose their destination. But sometimes, the cab chooses for them."

"That’s Sarah," the driver said. "She’s celebrating her first birthday without her father. He used to drive this cab."