Driver

Azriel had just pulled out of a narrow alley when he noticed a woman at a bus stop. She stood a little apart from the other people — not smoking, not looking at her phone, just gazing thoughtfully at the road, her old but clean coat buttoned up tight. A light wind tugged at her hair, pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her face was pale, with shadows under her eyes — not from bad makeup, but from a sleepless night or long-held worries. She raised her hand, and Azriel stopped. The woman got into the front seat — not the back, like many passengers, but next to the driver. Sometimes that meant a desire to talk. Other times, just fatigue and not wanting to sit alone in an empty cab. “To the hospital, please,” she said quietly, giving the address. Her voice was even, calm, but there was a kind of restrained tremor in it, like someone who had held everything in for a long time and was afraid of breaking down. Azriel nodded and pulled away. Silence settled in the car — not awkward, but rather tired, as if both understood that extra words were unnecessary here. But after a couple of minutes, he asked anyway: “Are you sick?” The woman shook her head, staring through the windshield at the receding ribbon of road. “No. My father.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “He’s old. He needs blood for surgery. I decided to be a donor.” Azriel glanced at her quickly. There was something touching in her profile — the straight line of her nose, slightly puffy eyelids, thin lips that she kept pressing together, as if trying not to cry. “That’s noble of you,” he said sincerely, and there was genuine admiration in his voice. “Thank you,” the woman replied simply, without coquetry or false modesty. She accepted the compliment as her due, but without pride — more with quiet sadness. Azriel drove fairly fast, simultaneously enjoying the morning sun that broke through the clouds and fell on the dashboard in golden patches. “Do you spend much time with him?” he asked, turning onto a wider street. The woman lowered her gaze to her hands — her fingers nervously tugged at the edge of her coat. “No,” she admitted quietly. “We haven’t talked much lately.” Azriel slowed down a little. The question hung in the air — not very delicate, but inevitable. “Why is that?” he asked gently, giving her the option not to answer if she didn’t want to. The woman sighed — a long, heavy sigh of someone who had carried this story inside for a long time but had told it to almost no one. “My parents divorced when I was a child,” she began slowly, choosing her words. “I stayed with my mother. She didn’t allow me to see my father. At all. No letters, no calls, no meetings.” Bitterness crept into her voice, dulled by the years. “And he moved to another city. Somehow, we just lost each other. For a long time.” “I understand,” Azriel said, and it was true. He really did understand — maybe even better than she thought. “You’ve had a hard life.” The woman looked at him in surprise. Something like gratitude flashed in her eyes — for not offering her pity in an overdone way, for not uttering clichés like “how awful” or “you poor thing.” “Not many people know about this,” she said quietly. “I’m not used to talking about such things.” “But why did you decide to save your father?” Azriel asked, and there was no judgment or disbelief in his question — just genuine curiosity. The woman was silent for a few seconds, looking out the window at the passing buildings. On one balcony, laundry hung to dry; somewhere a dog barked; a woman with a stroller crossed the road — ordinary life going on as usual. “I love him,” she said finally, and her voice trembled slightly. “Even if he didn’t give me many happy memories. Even if we were strangers for almost my whole life. He’s my father. And I need to take care of him.” The words fell into the car, simple and almost mundane. Azriel pressed the gas a little harder — not because he was in a hurry, but because he felt that this woman didn’t need pity. She needed to be driven exactly where she asked. “Is your mother alive?” he asked a minute later. “No,” the woman replied evenly, almost distantly. “She died a few years ago.” “I’m sorry,” Azriel said, and it was one of those rare phrases he spoke without emptiness. “I’m used to it,” the woman responded, and in that “used to it” there was as much pain as acceptance. They drove a bit longer in silence. Azriel thought about how many people in this city carried stories like this inside them — quiet ones, not for social media or newspapers. Just human stories of loss, forgiveness, and love that doesn’t die even after years of silence. “How much are you planning to give?” he asked when the gray hospital buildings appeared ahead. “450 milliliters,” the woman answered firmly, without hesitation. “The maximum?” Azriel clarified. He knew that for a donor, this was the upper limit, beyond which risk to one’s own health began. “He needs a lot of blood,” she explained, and for the first time, anxiety broke through in her voice. “Even that might not be enough.” “That’s terrible,” Azriel said quietly. He imagined an old man in a hospital bed, IV drips, white walls, the smell of medicine. And the daughter sitting in the next room with a needle in her vein, praying that it would be enough. “I hope he pulls through,” the woman said, and it sounded less like hope and more like a prayer. Azriel stopped the car at the main entrance. The hospital building was old, with peeling paint on the doors and a sign where several letters no longer lit up. People in medical coats smoked by the entrance; someone was wheeling an elderly woman with a blanket over her knees in a wheelchair. “Well, here we are,” Azriel said, turning to his passenger. “Goodbye. Good luck to you.” “Thank you,” the woman replied, handing him the fare. “Here you go.” She got out of the car, straightened her coat, paused for a moment at the door — as if gathering her courage. Then she took a deep breath and stepped inside. The glass door closed behind her with a soft thud.