
London, past midnight, the wet streets shimmer under the pale glow of streetlamps. Joe North, mid-forties, weathered face, eyes sharp with fatigue, sits quietly behind the wheel of his old cab. Conversations drift in and out like cigarette smoke. Glances exchanged through the rearview mirror. And sometimes… things happen after the meter stops ticking. He doesn’t seek them out. But he doesn’t turn them down either. He just… lets it happen.
Joe isn’t much of a talker. But women, lonely ones, drunk ones, or those running from something unseen, they find their way into his cab like it’s shelter. They tell him about their husbands, their heartbreaks, their regrets. Some cry. Some laugh. Some take off more than their stories. And Joe… Joe knows how to stay silent at the right moment, how to reach out at the right time, and how to disappear without leaving a trace.
Some nights, Joe looks into the rearview mirror and doesn’t recognize the man staring back. He’s a driver, sure. But sometimes, he’s also a witness. A secret. A temporary escape. A memory no one brings up in the morning. In a city that never truly sleeps, where people rush past each other like ghosts, Joe is just a cab, carrying quiet stories, stained with perfume, cigarettes… and silence.