Rain came like a rumor first
just a soft hiss on the windshield
the kind that makes neon signs blur into dreams
I let the wipers find their rhythm
slow, patient, like a tired heartbeat keeping time

First fare waved me down outside a dry cleaner
a young man in a tuxedo under a plastic cover
he said wedding but not mine
best man duty
He looked nervous and smelled faintly of hairspray
we crawled through wet streets
he kept practicing his toast under his breath
I asked if he loved speeches
he said no, but he owed the groom twelve years of friendship and one honest paragraph
When we reached the hall he looked at me in the mirror
Do you think people ever mean the things they promise on days like this
I said probably in that moment
He nodded, left a small boutonniere on the seat
for luck or laundry he said

The next call came from a noodle shop
the cook flagged me holding a steaming pot like a trophy
I’m delivering warmth, he joked
He said his nephew’s sick, soup’s urgent
I told him that’s the best kind of medicine
He kept the lid tight, watching steam leak like secrets
We pulled up to a tiny apartment
a kid opened the door in dinosaur pajamas and cheered
the man smiled and said see, the cure works every time
He handed me a takeout box and said the rain taxes my knees but not my heart
Inside was one dumpling, still hot

At a red light I saw two teenagers racing umbrellas down the gutter
plastic sails on paper boats
they were losing spectacularly
and laughing anyway

A woman with a cello next
she balanced it like a child
no case, just confidence
She said orchestra practice got canceled and home feels too quiet
so she wanted to drive
We went nowhere in particular
she asked me to roll the windows down even with the drizzle
The city hummed low beneath her humming higher
she plucked a string once and said
every raindrop thinks it’s falling alone until it lands
At her stop she smiled and said thanks for not asking what I’m running from

Then came the florist’s brother, the one she’d mentioned once
he carried a bundle of broken stems and said I fix what doesn’t sell
He told me he glues petals for neighborhood kids’ art class
they call him the flower mechanic
At a light he asked if I ever get tired of driving circles
I said maybe, but circles are honest
they end where they start
He said flowers do that too, just slower

The rain thickened
tires whispered on the slick black
I picked up a tourist couple who thought this weather was romantic
she leaned her head on his shoulder
he held the umbrella like it was holy
They wanted the lookout by Griffith
I warned them the fog would eat the view
They said that’s the point
Sometimes love likes to be lost together
At the top, the world was gone in white
they kissed anyway
When they came back they left a disposable camera
Take one photo for yourself, she said
I told her cab mirrors hate cameras
she said then take it anyway

Half an hour without a ping
The city slowed
I followed puddles that looked like broken glass mending itself
Pulled into a gas station for coffee that tasted like cardboard and rainwater
The clerk asked if I was working or hiding
I said both

A young boy flagged me near a bus stop
hood too big, backpack too small
He said library
His voice trembled around the edges
I asked about the book in his hands
He said it’s about astronauts who get homesick in space
He asked if drivers get homesick too
I said sometimes, but the map forgives us eventually
At the library he whispered thank you like he’d practiced it

Later, a man in a baseball cap carrying a dripping bouquet
He’d been stood up, that much was clear
Take these anywhere but home, he said
I left them on a bridge railing when he wasn’t looking
The river took them gently
maybe it needed flowers too

The rain started to fade
just enough to leave the streets shining like polished silver
A last fare: a city worker with a shovel in the trunk
He said storm drains clog, people complain, life repeats
We talked about water and memory
He said everything that falls returns somewhere
I liked that
When he left, he nodded at the sky and said
See, it always ends with light trying again

I parked under a streetlamp that buzzed like an old radio
The boutonniere still fresh
the dumpling box empty
the disposable camera waiting
I took one picture of the mirror
rain still crawling down the glass
me half in focus
the cab half reflection
Then I laughed because it looked exactly right

The meter blinked zero
outside, the puddles stitched the city back together
one reflection at a time
and I drove on toward whatever small promise was next