After Dark Taxi - The Silent Engineer

 

Daniel Wu stood at the edge of the overpass, hands buried deep in the pockets of his windbreaker, watching the world blur around him. The steady stream of cars flowed far below, their headlights glinting like ghostly eyes in the dark. It was 3:12 a.m. Even at this hour, the world was too busy to care. It was just cold, quiet, and unforgiving.

He had chosen this time for a reason. The world would still be asleep. He could disappear before anyone noticed.

Daniel had never been remarkable—at least, not in the eyes he valued most. Second child, middle son. His older brother, David, ran a startup with two regional offices, owned a Tesla, and was planning to purchase a luxurious condominium. His younger sister, Emily, was in her final year of med school, already assisting in surgeries under supervision. With her accolades in academics and sports, she was practically a prize any employer would be eager to hire. And Daniel? He had graduated with a third-class degree in engineering after years of struggling to meet expectations set for him—expectations not his own.

His parents never said they were disappointed, but their silence spoke volumes. His mother often compared him to his siblings—"Why can’t you be more focused like Emily?" or "David was already managing a team at your age." His father rarely said anything at all. Just a nod, a stiff pat on the back, and a long silence that felt like an audit.

Daniel had always worked hard. He never rebelled, never argued. He chose engineering because his parents said it was respectable. He smiled, took them to dinner when he could afford it, laughed at David's jokes even when they came with barbs.

And he never dated. Not once. Too awkward, too unsure, and lacking in confidence. So when someone reached out online—someone beautiful and affectionate—he clung to it. The messages became his oxygen. She called him kind, sweet, rare. She asked for help—money at first, then pictures. Then came the threats.

The shame hit like a wave. Daniel didn’t tell anyone. Not his parents, not even Emily, who always seemed to sense his moods. He imagined their disappointment, the lectures, the judgment. He imagined his mother crying and asking, "Why are you like this?"

So he made his plan. Quiet. Clean. No mess. Anyway, with him out of the picture, the family photo would look better—with no smudges on it.

---

Then the taxi appeared.

An old yellow, weathered sedan, idling by the sidewalk like it had always been there. Its headlights cast a soft golden hue, and the back door was open.

"Going somewhere?" said the driver, a man in a dark coat with calm eyes.

Daniel blinked. "Somewhere far from here?"

The driver didn’t respond much. Just gestured to the back seat.

Without hesitation, Daniel stepped into the taxi.

The city outside blurred the moment the door shut. Buildings dissolved into streaks of color. The air in the car was warm, but not stifling. The hum of the engine was steady, like a heartbeat.

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Rough night?”

Daniel managed a half-smile. “Just wanted to get far away from here.”

The driver nodded slowly, shifting the car into gear. “Far, huh? Most people say that when they don’t really know where they want to go.”

“ I know where I don’t want to be,” Daniel muttered, eyes fixed on the streaks of city light sliding past the window.

For a while, neither spoke. The hum of the engine and the warm air filled the silence between them.

Then the driver spoke again, voice low and calm—too calm.
“It’s not distance you’re chasing. It’s silence. From the pain.”

Daniel turned his head. “What did you say?”

The driver’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, meeting his.
“And maybe… to know if it ever meant anything. If you ever did.”

The world outside the window began to shift—light fading, shapes blurring into something familiar yet distant.

“Let’s find out,” the driver said.

The world outside flickered and changed.

---

Daniel watched a scene unfold through the window. He was six, proudly holding up a model airplane he'd built with his father. His father's expression was flat, unreadable. Daniel had always assumed he was unimpressed. But from this angle, he saw something else—a tiny upward twitch of the lips, a slow, approving nod.

Another flicker. A teenage Daniel, slumped at the dining table over math homework. His mother stood over him, her arms crossed, voice sharp. "David never needed this much help." Daniel, in the moment, had only felt the sting. But now, watching from outside, he saw her eyes. Worried. Tired. Scared.

"She thought she was helping and motivating you in her own unique way that she knows." the driver said. "She wanted the best for you."

Scene after scene.

David, all charm and bravado at the family gathering, raising laughter with stories of his latest success. But when Daniel spoke, his eyes drifted, smile slipping just slightly.

Later, in a memory Daniel didn’t know existed, David stood alone in his sleek office, the city lights flickering outside. He held an old photo album—creases worn, corners softened. His thumb paused on a picture of two boys grinning at the beach.

“He never tried to be anyone else,” David murmured to the quiet. “That takes more guts than I ever had.”

Emily, always chirpy, always affectionate. Daniel thought she pitied him. Now he saw her journal entry: "If I ever have a brother in my next life, I hope he’s like Dan. No one sees how much he carries."

His father again. Quiet. Distant. But one morning, just before Daniel left for work, the father slipped a folded bill into his son's wallet while he was in the shower. No thanks, no credit. Just quiet support.

Daniel's throat tightened.

Then the scene shifted again—to the worst day.

He watched himself reading the scammer's final message. The trembling hands. The panic. The sick silence. He watched himself crumble, say nothing, pretend everything was fine. Until he broke.

He relived the pain. The moment he imagined telling his family. The imagined humiliation.

But now, seeing it again, he felt... different.

He turned to the driver. "It hurt, but... it's not the end, is it?"

"No," the driver said. "You just believed it was. You lived your whole life thinking you were invisible. But you never were. You just didn't see how they loved you."

Daniel looked down. "So what now? Do I go to hell? Do I vanish?"

The driver pulled the car to a gentle stop. They were on a road that shimmered, leading into an indistinct horizon.

"You can go," he said. "No one will call it suicide. It will be gentle. They’ll grieve, but they'll think it was natural. It will hurt less. For them. And you won’t feel anything ever again."

Daniel was silent.

"Or," the driver continued, "you go back. No resets. No do-overs. The pain will still be there. But so will the truth. And the people who love you. And the chance to start again, with your eyes open."

Daniel stared out the window. Thought of David. Emily. His father’s silent acts of care. His mother’s nagging born of fear.

He smiled faintly.

“ What’s the worst that could happen?” Daniel said, almost laughing. “I was already halfway gone.”

The driver smiled back, for the first time.

"Exactly."

---

Daniel woke up in his bed, heart racing. The morning sun filtered through the curtains. His phone buzzed—a message from Emily. Just a meme, something dumb. But it made him laugh.

He opened his wallet. A folded bill sat there. He hadn’t noticed it before.

Daniel exhaled. Then picked up the phone. He dialed his mother.

"Ma?" he said.

"Daniel? What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just… wanted to talk."

Somewhere down the street, unnoticed and fading with the dawn, an old yellow taxi turned the corner—and was gone.