The Last Ride of the Night

It was almost midnight when Quang decided to take one last ride before heading home. The streets were quiet, the city lights soft and sleepy. Rain had fallen earlier, and the asphalt still shimmered under the glow of streetlamps.

He turned on the meter, adjusted the radio, and waited.

A few minutes later, the door opened. A young woman slipped in, holding a bouquet of white lilies wrapped in brown paper. Her eyes were tired but gentle, her voice barely above a whisper. “Central Hospital, please.”

Quang nodded and started the engine. For a while, neither spoke. The hum of the car filled the silence, along with the faint sound of raindrops tapping against the windshield.

“Long night?” he asked finally.

She smiled faintly. “Yes. Visiting my mother. She likes flowers, even though she can’t see them anymore.”

Quang glanced at her through the mirror. “She’s blind?”

The woman nodded. “Lost her sight two years ago. But she says she can still smell the world, so I bring her flowers every week.”

There was something about the way she said it simple, without sadness that made Quang feel small and grateful all at once.

They stopped at a red light. A street vendor was closing his cart, humming softly. The woman looked out the window, watching him fold up his life for the night.

“My father used to drive a taxi,” she said suddenly. “He said people think drivers only take passengers somewhere, but sometimes… we just carry moments.”

Quang chuckled softly. “That’s a good way to put it.”

At the hospital, she handed him the fare. The lilies had left a sweet scent in the back seat.

As she was about to step out, she hesitated. “Would you mind waiting a few minutes?” she asked. “I’ll pay for the time.”

He nodded. “Take your time.”

She returned fifteen minutes later, her eyes red but peaceful. “Thank you for waiting,” she said.

“No rush,” he replied. “How’s your mother?”

“She smiled today,” she said softly. “That’s enough.”

Quang smiled back. “Then it’s a good night.”

She handed him one of the lilies from her bouquet. “For you,” she said. “So your car smells like kindness.”

He wanted to say something, but she had already closed the door, her figure fading into the hospital lights.

When he got home, he placed the flower in an old cup by the window. Its white petals glowed faintly under the moonlight. The city outside still breathed, distant and alive.

Quang turned off the meter, leaned back, and smiled.

Some rides, he thought, don’t end when you park the car. They keep driving quietly inside you.