It was just past midnight when I got the ping pickup on the corner of Geary and 12th. The streets were quiet, that soft silence that only comes after the city exhales its chaos for the night.
When I pulled up, she was sitting on the curb, hugging her knees. At first, I wasn’t sure she was the one who called. But then she stood, dusted off her jeans, and walked over. Early twenties, tear streaked cheeks, hair pulled into a loose bun. She hesitated before opening the door.
“Can you take me to Ocean Beach?” she asked, voice soft but steady.
I nodded. No questions. Sometimes people need to get away more than they need to explain.
The ride was long, winding west through the sleeping city. She stared out the window the whole time, one hand clenched around a photo old, creased, and just visible enough for me to see a man in uniform, arms around a little girl. Her.
We drove in silence for a while. Then, about halfway there, she spoke.
“Today was his birthday,” she said quietly. “My dad. He used to take me to the beach every year. Just us.”
I glanced at her through the rearview mirror. She wasn’t crying anymore, just floating in memory.
“He died when I was twelve. Car accident. Hit-and-run. No one ever found the guy.” She paused, swallowing hard. “I stopped going after that. Couldn’t bring myself to. But tonight… I don’t know. I just needed to go. One more time.”
I didn’t say anything. What could I say? Sometimes silence is the best answer.
We got to Ocean Beach around 12:45. The moon lit the sand in silver, the waves rolling in slow like they were breathing. She asked if I could wait. I nodded.
She got out, walked toward the water, and stood there for a while, her feet just at the edge where the tide kissed the shore. I watched her from the car, the way her shoulders rose and fell with every breath. She looked like she was talking to someone, maybe to the wind, maybe to the stars.
Then she knelt down and placed the photo in the sand, weighing it down with a small stone. I could barely make it out, but I knew what she was doing.
A goodbye. Or maybe a beginning.
After about twenty minutes, she came back, eyes red but calmer somehow.
“Thanks for waiting,” she said, climbing back in. “Most drivers wouldn’t.”
“Most nights aren’t like this,” I replied.
She gave me a small, grateful smile.
On the drive back, she talked a little more. About how she used to build sandcastles with him, how he’d write her name in the sand and tell her stories about stars being the souls of people we loved. She had grown up too fast after he died, she said. Took care of her mom, buried the pain, pretended it didn’t ache every time she passed a beach.
“I forgot how much I missed him,” she whispered. “Until tonight.”
When we pulled up to her apartment, she reached into her purse and handed me some folded cash.
I took it. Not because I needed it, but because I knew sometimes doing normal things helps bring someone back to earth. And I wanted her to feel steady again.
She opened the door, then paused.
“I didn’t know where to put all of it until tonight,” she said. “Thanks for giving me space to figure it out.”
I just nodded.
She walked to her building, disappearing into the soft glow of the porch light. The city was quiet again.
And I sat there for a moment longer, listening to the ocean echo in my rearview mirror.
. . . . .
About the Creator
Baba
🚖 Tales from a San Francisco Cab Driver
Every ride has a story, funny bizarre unforgettable. From late night confessions to mysterious strangers Buckle up and ride along the wild heartwarming moments from behind the wheel
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— Look Behind what's in Front of You ~ Make Good Choices — Hey, So how you Doin'..! Made~Men — Mobster Movies romanticise a distinctive, elegant appearance, impeccable attire style, along with the 'Families' expressive lingo. Making their 'Bones' gave them Panache — with vintage fedoras, tailored pin-striped suits, mirror-polished wing-tip shoes adorned with tassels; with their 'Gun Moll' gorgeous dates on their arms.
By Jay Kantor11 days ago in Families
Home Through the Winter Rain
Winter arrived gently that year, not with snowstorms or icy winds, but with steady rain that seemed to fall without end. The sky was a soft gray, heavy and calm, and the air smelled of wet roads and cold earth. On one such evening, a small family climbed into their own car, ready to begin the familiar drive home. The engine started with a low, comforting sound. The headlights cut through the mist, glowing warmly against the rain. The parents sat in the front seats, wrapped in thick coats, their breaths forming faint clouds before the heater slowly warmed the air. The mother adjusted the mirror, smiling softly as she glanced back at the children. The father rested his hands on the steering wheel, careful and steady, already focused on the road ahead. In the back seat, the children were bundled together like little birds hiding from the cold. Their jackets were bright against the dark interior of the car, and their shoes were still damp from puddles they had jumped in earlier that day. One child hugged a stuffed bear tightly, its fur worn soft from years of love. Another leaned close to the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass in twisting paths. “Look,” one of them whispered, tracing a finger along the foggy window. “That one is winning.” The rain seemed alive outside, each drop racing the others, merging and separating, disappearing at the bottom of the glass. Streetlights reflected in the wet road, stretching into long golden lines that shimmered and broke apart as the car moved forward. The heater clicked louder now, filling the car with warmth. Slowly, gloves were pulled off, scarves loosened. The tight cold of winter faded into something soft and safe. The radio played quietly in the background—an old song the parents knew by heart. They didn’t sing out loud, but their heads moved gently to the rhythm. As the car traveled through the rain, the father slowed at each turn, careful not to rush. Tires whispered against the wet road. The mother pointed out familiar places as they passed—a closed bakery, a dark park, a row of houses glowing faintly from inside. Everything looked different in the rain, quieter, calmer, as if the world itself was resting. The children grew sleepy, their earlier excitement fading into peaceful silence. One rested their head against the other’s shoulder. The stuffed bear slipped onto the seat between them. Outside, the rain tapped steadily on the roof, a soft rhythm like a lullaby. “Do you remember,” the mother said gently, “when we used to drive like this before you were born?” The father smiled. “Long drives. Late nights. Just us and the road.” “And now,” she said, glancing back again, “we’re all here.” The children didn’t fully hear the words, but they felt their meaning. They felt it in the warmth of the car, in the way the parents’ voices sounded calm and close, in the steady movement carrying them safely forward. The road curved toward the edge of town. Trees stood bare, their branches dark and shining with rain. Water pooled along the sides of the street, reflecting the passing lights like tiny mirrors. Somewhere far away, a dog barked once, then fell silent again. One child stirred and yawned. “Are we almost home?” “Soon,” the father answered softly. That word—home—settled into the car like another blanket. Home meant dry clothes and warm soup. It meant lights in the windows and shoes left by the door. It meant safety from the cold rain and the long gray sky. As they drove, the rain began to slow. The drops grew smaller, lighter, until they were more like a mist. The clouds above thinned just enough to let a pale glow through, not quite moonlight, but something close. The world felt gentler somehow, as if winter itself had decided to be kind. The car turned onto a quiet street. Houses lined the road, each one familiar, each one holding its own small stories. The father parked slowly, switching off the engine. Suddenly, the world felt very still. The rain whispered one last time, then faded into silence. The children woke fully now, blinking and stretching. Coats were zipped, hats pulled on. The mother gathered the stuffed bear and handed it back with a smile. The father stepped out first, opening the door and letting in a breath of cool winter air. They walked together toward their house, shoes splashing softly in shallow puddles. The porch light glowed warmly, welcoming them home. Inside, the house smelled faintly of dinner and clean air. The door closed behind them, shutting out the cold and the rain. Jackets were hung up. Shoes were lined neatly by the door. The children laughed quietly, already talking about tomorrow. The parents watched them for a moment, tired but content. Outside, winter continued its slow rain. Inside, the family moved easily through their evening, wrapped in comfort and love. And though the night was cold, and the roads were wet, the journey had been enough—because they had made it home together.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout 16 hours ago in Families
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