She turned to thank the driver. The cab was gone. In its place, a single wet petal from a cherry blossom—out of season, out of mind—stuck to her coat.
Inside, there was no driver. Just a warm cup of jasmine tea in the cup holder, and a small screen embedded in the seatback.
At 4th & Main, the cab stopped. The rain, impossibly, parted around the door. Mia stepped out onto bone-dry pavement. Ahead, through the gallery’s glass doors, she saw the curator checking his watch, then looking up with relief. shoflo app
She tapped it.
The cab moved before she shut the door. It glided through traffic like a needle through silk—cutting gaps that didn’t exist, sliding through yellow lights that held just long enough. The screen showed not a route, but a single phrase: She turned to thank the driver
A pause. Then a reply appeared, not as a notification, but as if someone were typing directly onto the glass:
Mia hesitated. But the rain was now coming down sideways, and her phone buzzed with 1% left. She climbed in. Inside, there was no driver
The rain, finally, stopped.