The Driver
A quiet morning.
Sunlight filters through the windows.
Leaves rustle softly outside.
No urgency. No tension. Just the kind of stillness that makes you feel like the world is on your side.
We didn’t know it then, but that was the last moment anything felt normal.
My sister and I stepped out of the house like any other day.
We were laughing. Talking about meeting a friend.
It felt chill. Peaceful. The kind of peace you never think will end.
We walked through the neighborhood like we always did.
But when we reached the main road...
Everything stopped.
No people.
No traffic.
Just silence.
Like the world had hit pause—but forgot to press play again.
Then, out of nowhere, a small electric cab with dark windows pulled up and stopped in front of us.
Inside sat two children—quiet, still.
One looked about seven, the other five.
They stared at us like they knew us. Or like they'd been waiting.
We exchanged a look.
And for some reason… we got in.
That’s when we saw the driver.
Small.
Arms too long.
Eyes too wide and round.
He didn’t move like a person.
He didn’t blink like one either.
He looked at us through the mirror. His head tilted slightly.
Then, in the softest, most robotic voice, he said:
“Hello.”
Just that one word—too calm, too controlled.
And then:
“My name is Nyx.”
We didn’t reply.
We just sat there as the engine started.
And the ride began.
