I was alone in a taxi at 3 a.m. The driver kept silently making eye contact. When I arrived, I rushed out and into my building, climbing to my 8th-floor flat.
Then, I heard footsteps behind me—it was the driver. Panicked, I started sprinting up the stairs, but he got closer. I turn, and to my horror, he grabs my wrist.
“Wait!” he gasps, panting. “You dropped this.”
In his hand: my wallet. I just stood there like a fool, my heart pounding in my ears.
I’d been clutching my pepper spray, thumb on the nozzle, ready to scream. But now I just felt… dumb. He held the wallet out like it was some peace offering.
“Sorry if I scared you,” he said, stepping back, giving me space. His accent was thick, something Middle Eastern, but his eyes were kind. Tired.
“You left it on the seat. I didn’t want someone else to take it.”
I muttered thanks, cheeks burning. He nodded and turned to head back down, taking the stairs two at a time.
I didn’t sleep much that night. Something about the whole thing stuck with me—not just the scare, but the look on his face when I finally relaxed. Like he’d seen that fear before.
Like he was used to being feared. The next morning, I opened the wallet. Nothing was missing.
In fact, there was a small sticky note tucked inside:
“Be safe. The world is full of both kinds.”
I stared at it, rereading it like ten times. What did he mean by both kinds?
That one sentence opened something up in me. I was living in London, relatively new in the city. Moved here for a job at a community art center in Hackney, teaching creative writing.
I didn’t know many people yet, just a few colleagues and my housemate, Anouk, who worked night shifts at the hospital. I started thinking about him a lot, that driver. I’d been so ready to assume the worst.
He had no idea who I was, but he still came all the way up eight flights to return something I didn’t even know I’d lost. So a few days later, I did something that surprised even me. I called the taxi company and asked if there was any way to identify the driver from that night.
At first, the dispatcher hesitated—privacy rules, they said. But when I explained I just wanted to thank him, and maybe buy him a coffee, she warmed up. “I think you mean Idris,” she said.
“He’s the only one on the 2 a.m.–4 a.m. shift who drives that route.”
She gave me a number. I stared at it for hours before texting:
“Hi, this is the woman from the other night—the wallet.
Would love to treat you to coffee if you’re ever free.”
He replied within minutes. “Was just doing the right thing. But yes, I’d like that.
Tomorrow?”
We met at a tiny Algerian café near Finsbury Park. I expected it to be awkward. It wasn’t.
Idris was… quiet, but not cold. He spoke slowly, carefully, like every word had weight. He’d come to the UK five years ago.
Used to be a teacher back in Algeria. Taught high school philosophy, if you can believe that. “Why not teach here?” I asked, sipping my mint tea.
He laughed, a little bitter. “You think they’ll let me? No UK degree.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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