I was alone in a taxi at 3 a.m., the city half-asleep and the streets glowing under orange lights. The driver kept glancing at me through the mirror, his eyes unreadable, his silence unsettling. When we finally reached my building, I paid quickly and rushed out, my heart thudding as I climbed toward my 8th-floor flat. That’s when I heard it—footsteps behind me. Heavy, quick, getting closer. I turned—and saw the taxi driver.
Panic surged through me. I broke into a sprint, my mind spinning with worst-case scenarios. My breath came in gasps as I reached the next landing, but he was right behind me, holding something in his hand. My stomach dropped. I spun around, trembling. “Please, just take what you want!” I cried, my voice shaking.
He stopped, chest rising and falling, eyes wide with confusion. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand and said softly, “Miss, you dropped your wallet.” For a moment, I couldn’t move. My wallet—my ID, cards, and the photo of my late dad—was all there. I had left it on the back seat. He handed it to me gently, concern still etched across his face.
“I called out, but you didn’t hear me,” he explained, still catching his breath. “I didn’t want someone else to find it before you did.” My fear dissolved into shame and gratitude all at once. I managed a shaky thank-you, tears stinging my eyes as relief flooded through me.
After he left, I sat on the stairwell, clutching the wallet to my chest. That night taught me something I’ll never forget: sometimes, fear paints the wrong picture. The world can be dark—but there are still people who choose light, even at 3 a.m., even when it’s misunderstood.
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