Slowly, as if afraid to scare away the moment or shatter the fragile illusion of reality, I turn my head. The world around seems to freeze, leaving only him in the spotlight — the taxi driver sitting behind the wheel, as if born from my deepest memories. An icy lump immediately tightens in my chest, and an unpleasant shiver runs down my spine, as if thousands of goosebumps decided to race across my skin. His face… It is impossibly familiar. That very scar under his right eyebrow, exactly the same one I remember since childhood — as if someone carefully traced a blade along the skin and left a mark as a keepsake. The very same raised mole just below the ear, like a drop of time frozen on the neck. And the eyes — gray, penetrating, full of questions he never asked out loud but always read in his gaze.
Chaos begins inside me. Either my mind has completely cracked, or right in front of me sits an exact copy of my father. The very one who is no longer here. The very one whose photograph still stands on the mantelpiece at the house where we no longer gather together.
“You’re here!” — I burst out, not as an accusation, but more like a cry from the soul. — “You should be in his place! You’re the only one to blame!”
Those words still echo in my head, even though I left the café a long time ago. My sister kicked me out as if I were a ghost who has no right to be near. Today is a special day — the anniversary of his death. Everyone copes in their own way. Some just withdraw into themselves, others look for answers in alcohol, others — in rage. And Sonya? She chose revenge. Not physical, of course, but emotional — coldness, accusations, a break.
And maybe she’s right. Maybe I really am to blame. Because that night I was supposed to pick her up from the airport. I was supposed to be sober. I was supposed to be there, not lying somewhere in a bar drowning in self-pity. But instead, father, tired after a night shift, got behind the wheel and went to get her. And never came back.
Now, sitting near the car, which I didn’t even manage to get into, I feel my breath catch, my throat dry up, and everything before my eyes blurs as if the world is washed by tears I never shed. I squat down, close my eyes, trying to focus on every breath. Deep, slow, exhale — just as dad once taught me when I was nervous before an exam. How strange that his advice comes to my aid right now.
But it’s hardly enough to sit behind the wheel. My hands still tremble. Thoughts get tangled. And honestly — I’m not ready. Better a taxi. I take a deep breath, pull out my phone, twirling it in my hands as if hoping to find answers there. At that moment, I notice a black-and-yellow taxi slowly crawling down the empty road. The sign on the roof lights up — “Free.” As if fate itself sent this car straight to me.
I approach, wave my hand, and within seconds open the door and climb inside. I close it and immediately plunge into an atmosphere that somehow feels familiar. The smell of orange air freshener and wood, maybe fir. That’s how my father’s car smelled. I involuntarily smile, though everything inside flips. What strange games does memory play with me?
Slowly I turn my head and find myself face to face with the taxi driver. My chest chills. Goosebumps run down my spine. The same scar under the eyebrow. The same raised mole on the neck. The same inquisitive gray eyes.
Either I’ve completely lost my mind, or in front of me sits an exact copy of my late father.
I want to rush to him like a small child, sob on his shoulder, tell him everything — about the pain, the guilt, the fear that I will never be able to atone for my mistake. But common sense takes over. This cannot be true. It’s a trick of the imagination. Just a hard day, too many emotions. Deep breath, hold for five seconds, slow exhale.
“Hi, son.”
I jump as if hit by electricity. I curse, grab the door handle, trying to break free, but it’s locked. Desperately cover my face with my hands, lean forward, trying to chase away the image of my father, trying to forget this day. But nothing helps. Only the pain grows sharper. I lean back in the seat, lower my hands, sweat beads on my forehead, breath rapid. I gather my strength and turn to the driver.
“Done?” he asks, his voice sounding like last year’s snow starting to melt again.
It’s him. It’s really him. He is here. He drives the car as he did all his life — relaxed, with one hand, as if the road belonged to him alone.
“Dad? But how?” I whisper, unable to look away from his unshaven cheek.
“Not your fault,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road. “Stop torturing yourself, got it?”
“I don’t get it,” I reply almost automatically. “There’s no one else to blame. Even Sonya…”
“Sophia will recover,” he says confidently. “The wound will heal. You’ll see. And the anger will fade.”
Only dad called her “Sophia.” Only he could speak like that — confidently, without extra words, with that special tone that made things a little easier.
“And I don’t want it to fade!” I confess, surprising even myself. “Sonya has every right to be angry. That night, I was supposed to be behind the wheel. We both know it. If I hadn’t argued with my girlfriend, if I hadn’t gotten drunk like an idiot, you wouldn’t have had to go after her! You wouldn’t have crashed. You would be alive, Dad.”
He is silent. Just shrugs and turns right.
“Don’t look for logic where there can be none. Fate has its own rules, son. Neither you nor I can change them.”
The road becomes familiar. Too familiar. My pulse pounds in my temples like a drum beating the rhythm of fear.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice metallic, lifeless.
“You know,” he answers. “You want it.”
Houses, streetlights, lilac bushes fly by. I see a plane descending over the city.
“Don’t, Dad,” I plead. “Not that road!”
“Sorry, but you want it yourself.”
A red light ahead. Only five hundred meters left.
“Brake!”
He doesn’t listen. On the contrary — he presses the gas.
“What are you doing?! DAD!”
“Proving,” he says firmly.
“What?!”
“That your fate is not my fate.”
We fly through the intersection. Horns blare around us. The car slides, skids, but we exit the danger zone. After a moment, we stop on the roadside.
I open my eyes. I’m in my car. Behind the wheel. My left hand gripping the steering wheel.
“I was at the crash site,” I say, entering the house. “Ran the red light at that intersection, just like he did.”
Sonya is silent. She looks at me with red eyes.
“I was in his place. Just like you wanted.”
Her gaze softens. She takes a step toward me.
“You’re crazy,” she sniffs, hugging me. “Don’t do that again.”
After a long silence and tea, I ask:
“Maybe it was his fate? Not my irresponsibility, not his fatigue, not the weather… Just fate?”
“I don’t like it,” Sonya says, “but I think you’re right. It was easier to blame you.”
“Me too.”
She squeezes my hand. We are silent. Sad. But now together. And our shared wound will, slowly, start to heal. Sooner or later.