Do you believe it? Some questions, once asked, can never stop.
Just like that driver, asking me over and over, "What time is it?"
It wasn't until I got out that I understood —
He didn't want to know the time.
He wanted time to remember him.
1:47 a.m.
I stared at the numbers on my phone screen, watching them flip from forty-seven to forty-eight, then forty-nine. My office floor was the only one still lit in the entire building. The air conditioner hummed loudly, like a beetle trapped in the concrete forest, unable to fly away.
A WeChat message popped up in the corner of my screen:
The plan is approved. You don't have to come tomorrow.
I froze for three seconds before it sank in — it wasn't a layoff. The project was finished, and I could finally rest for a day. My boss was being unusually kind, probably because this was my seventeenth consecutive day of overtime.
When I shut down my computer, the whole tower felt scorching hot. I stuffed my laptop into my backpack, but the zipper got stuck. I yanked it twice before it finally closed. The elevator lobby was empty. Only my shadow stretched long on the stainless steel doors.
Once outside, a cold wind rushed into my collar, making me shiver.
It was November, late at night. The streets were almost deserted. A few taxis idled by the curb, drivers gathered together smoking, their cigarettes flickering on and off.
I didn't walk toward them.
For some reason, I circled past the smoking drivers and crossed to the other side of the road. Under the shade of the trees, another car was running, its exhaust pipe puffing white smoke, as if it had just stopped.
I tapped on the rear window.
The window rolled down, revealing the face of a middle-aged man. Square jaw, thick eyebrows, slightly chapped lips. He wore a gray jacket with a frayed collar. He glanced at me and said nothing.
"Sir, going my way?"
He nodded.
I opened the back door and slid in. The car smelled faintly of gasoline mixed with old sweat from the leather seats — not pleasant, but not disgusting either. A thin, faded cushion covered the seat, but it was clean enough.
"Where to?" he asked.
I gave him the name of my neighborhood, in the east of the city, twelve kilometers away.
He grunted, signaled, and pulled away.
The car merged onto the main road. Streetlights streaked past the windows one by one, casting alternating patches of orange light and shadow across the cabin. I leaned back and checked my phone.
1:53 a.m.
"What time is it?" he suddenly asked.
I hesitated, then glanced at the dashboard. It was dark, no display.
"One fifty-three," I said.
He didn't respond, just kept driving.
I lowered my head and scrolled through Moments. A coworker had just posted: Finally off work, with a photo of the empty office. I liked it and kept scrolling. A reseller posted ads, an old colleague showed off their baby, a college friend shared a marketing article. Nothing interesting.
"What time is it?"
I looked up again.
"One fifty-six."
He hummed, still not looking at me.
I found it strange. I glanced at his dashboard again. It was an old model, no big screen, just a radio with its lights off. The instrument panel was lit, but only showed speed and RPM — no clock.
Must be broken, I thought.
I kept scrolling. A short video bored me after a few seconds. Another one explained that midnight to 3 a.m. was when the human body was most exhausted, and traffic accidents peaked. I read it and closed the app.
"What time is it?"
I looked up and answered without checking my phone: "Two oh one."
He nodded.
I started to feel uncomfortable.
What was wrong with this guy? Asking once or twice was fine, but every few minutes, like a broken alarm. I stared at the dashboard again — still no clock. Maybe he wanted to know how long the trip would take? But he could just check his own phone. Where was his phone?
I leaned back and casually studied him.
He drove steadily, hands on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. Streetlights flashed across his face, bright, dark, bright, dark. His expression never changed, brow slightly furrowed, like he was thinking about something.
In the rearview mirror, I saw his eyes.
Strange eyes.
Not scary, not fierce — just… unfocused.
He wasn't looking at me, wasn't looking at the road. He just stared straight ahead, motionless. Like he was asleep with his eyes open, or watching something I couldn't see.
My heart skipped a beat.
Too many horror movies, I told myself. It's late, I'm scaring myself.
The car turned onto a small road lined with old neighborhoods. Streetlights were sparse, and one stretch was completely dark. Only the headlights illuminated the next dozen meters of asphalt, glinting pale blue like a river.
"What time is it?"
I answered almost the second he spoke: "Two oh five."
He hummed.
Silence fell. Only the tires rolling over the road, shhh, shhh.
I suddenly noticed something — the radio was off.
At this hour, late-night radio shows were usually on. Even if drivers didn't listen, most kept it on for background noise, to stay awake. But this man had nothing on. The car was dead quiet except for road noise and wind.
Too quiet.
"Sir," I said, breaking the silence, "how long have you had this car?"
He didn't answer.
I thought he hadn't heard. "How many years have you been driving it?"
He was silent for a few seconds, then said: "Three."
His voice was soft, like it came from far away.
"Not too old, then," I said. "I once took a decades-old Santana. The smell in that thing was something else."
He didn't reply.
I awkwardly tried again: "Do you usually work the night shift?"
He fell silent again.
Something felt off. Night taxi drivers, especially veterans, were rarely this quiet. Driving late at night made you drowsy. Most would chat with passengers to stay alert.
Unless — he didn't want to talk.
Or… he could only say one thing.
I glanced in the mirror again.
He was still in the same position, hands on the wheel, staring ahead. But this time, I saw a detail: his lips were moving.
Barely, pressing together again and again, like he was muttering something.
Muttering what? I wondered.
"What time is it?"
A chill ran down my spine.
"Sir," I cleared my throat, "are you feeling okay? Maybe pull over for a minute."
He didn't move.
"Sir?"
Still nothing.
Sweat beaded in my palms. I squeezed my phone tightly. The screen lit up.
2:11 a.m.
"What time is it?"
I almost shouted: "Two eleven!"
As soon as I said it, I regretted it. Why yell? He asked the time, I answered. What was I so jumpy about?
But the overwhelming fear surged from that moment. Not fear of him, but fear of what was happening. No normal person asks for the time every few minutes. No normal person ignores questions. No normal person —
No normal person moves their lips nonstop without making a sound.
I shrank back, pressing against the seat. My hands were soaked; I could barely hold my phone. I wanted to text a friend, but didn't know what to say. I couldn't even name what I was afraid of.
He just asked me the time. That was all. He did nothing, said nothing but drive and ask, drive and ask.
So why did I feel so cold?
The car stopped at a red light. A long one, over eighty seconds. I watched the numbers drop: sixty-seven, sixty-six, sixty-five.
Not a sound in the car.
Tires stopped. Wind died. Even the engine seemed silent. Maybe it was just my imagination, but in that moment, I truly felt — the entire world had stopped.
Except his lips, still moving.
Sixty-four, sixty-three, sixty-two…
"What time is it?"
I practically cried: "Two fourteen!"
He hummed.
The light turned green.
The car moved again, turning onto a road I recognized. I was almost home. Two more intersections. I gripped my phone, staring out the window. There was a 24-hour convenience store, lights on. A neighborhood gate with a security guard. The noodle shop I frequented, its shutter down —
This was my neighborhood.
"Just up ahead, pull over here," I said quickly. "Right here, yeah."
He slowly pulled to the curb.
I pulled a twenty-yuan note from my pocket — too flustered to wait for mobile payment — and slipped it through the gap in the front seat. "Keep the change. You should head home soon."
I opened the door, one leg already out.
Then he spoke.
"I can't go home."
I froze.
"At this exact time, three years ago," he said, his voice flat, no emotion, "I dropped off my last passenger, then hit a bridge pillar."
I didn't turn around.
I couldn't.
"Right at that intersection up ahead," he said. "The pillar is still there. Concrete. Scratches on it."
My legs trembled. My hand on the door shook.
"The passenger was fine. He sat in the back," he said. "Gave me a twenty, told me to head home soon."
Wind rushed into the car, bitterly cold.
I stood outside the door, frozen in place.
"I've been driving ever since," he said. "Until tonight."
I wanted to run.
But I couldn't move.
"Every night at this time," he said, "I want to stop. But I can't. I keep asking what time it is, over and over. After I ask, I drive another loop. After I ask, another loop."
His voice suddenly sounded odd, like a laugh, or a sigh.
"I'm glad you can hear me."
I finally turned around.
The driver's seat was empty.
The seatbelt was still fastened, draped over the seat like someone was sitting there. The gray jacket hung over the backrest, but nothing was inside it. The steering wheel turned slightly on its own, slowly straightening.
Then the engine died.
The dashboard went dark.
All sound vanished.
I slammed the door shut and stumbled backward, crashing into a roadside trash can. It toppled over with a loud crash, exploding in the silent street.
The taxi sat there, motionless.
Its taillights still glowed. Red, piercing in the dark.
I turned and ran.
Into the neighborhood, past the gate, past the building, to the elevator. I pressed the button over and over until it finally arrived. I darted in, hit my floor, and leaned against the wall gasping.
The elevator stopped.
I stepped out, fumbling for my keys. My hands shook so badly I dropped them twice. I finally unlocked the door, rushed in, locked it, and turned on the lights.
Bright light surrounded me. I crouched on the floor, head in my hands, breathing heavily.
It's fine, it's fine, I told myself. I'm just tired. Too much overtime. Hallucinations. Sleep it off, tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow —
Then I remembered something.
That twenty-yuan note.
I never carry cash.
My wallet only had cards. I hadn't used cash in three years. Who withdraws money just to work overtime until midnight?
Where did I pull that twenty from?
I couldn't remember.
I didn't sleep the next day.
I tossed and turned in bed until sunrise. When sunlight seeped through the curtains, I finally dozed off lightly. My sleep was shallow, filled with dreams of that car, that voice, that question:
What time is it?
I woke up at 2 p.m.
Lying in bed, I scrolled my phone, trying to drown out last night's memories with mindless content. But my fingers stopped.
I opened the local news search bar and typed:
three years ago, bridge pillar, accident.
The first result popped up immediately.
Late-Night Taxi Crashes Into Pillar, Driver Killed Instantly
Date: November 17th, three years ago. Time: 2:20 a.m. Location: the eastern intersection, exactly where he said he hit the pillar.
The report said the driver's surname was Zhou, 43 years old, had driven a night taxi for three years. After dropping off his last passenger, he crashed on the way back. Speed wasn't high, but the angle was direct. The steering wheel crushed his chest. Death was instant.
The passenger had gotten off early and was unharmed.
A photo was attached: Zhou's ID photo, wearing that gray jacket, square jaw, thick eyebrows, slightly chapped lips.
It was him.
The last paragraph read:
According to family members, Mr. Zhou called home shortly before the accident, saying he would finish his last trip and go home. His wife waited until 3 a.m., not for him — but for a call from the hospital.
I set down my phone and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Can't go home.
He really couldn't.
After that night, I took a different route home.
I walked farther, avoided that road. I waited longer, refused taxis at that hour. I thought that would make me forget, pretend nothing happened.
But I couldn't shake that question.
Sometimes walking outside, the voice would suddenly return. Sometimes waking up in the middle of the night, I felt someone whispering beside me. Sometimes when a friend messaged me, the notification made me jump.
I thought that was strange enough.
Until three months later.
I was working late again. Not because I had to, but because I didn't want to go home. I'd changed jobs, moved, rearranged my life, but that nameless fear lingered. It was like a shadow — invisible by day, clinging to me at night.
I stayed at the office until nearly 2 a.m. before finally heading down to catch a taxi.
I didn't want to get in that car.
But I did anyway.
Somehow, I found myself standing at that exact intersection where I first met him. I watched the cars pass and suddenly thought —
I wanted to see him again.
The thought shocked me. But then it felt okay. He never hurt me, never scared me. He just asked questions. He was stuck, not malicious.
I waited a long time.
Taxi after taxi passed. None were his.
I checked the time: 2:07 a.m.
Then a car pulled up in front of me.
Not a taxi.
A black private car. The window rolled down, revealing a young face.
"Need a ride?" he asked.
I hesitated. "Are you a ride-hail driver?"
"Yeah, I accepted your order," he said, pointing at the screen on his mount. "Your car, tail number 8736?"
I pulled out my phone. I hadn't ordered anything.
But the tail number matched mine.
"Get in, it's cold outside," he smiled. "Don't worry, it's a legal platform. We're recorded."
I hesitated, then opened the door and got in.
The car smelled faintly of perfume. The seats were new. A big screen glowed on the dashboard. I looked down at my phone, ready to cancel the mysterious order.
The screen showed:
Driver has arrived. Please board promptly.
Order placed: 2:03 a.m.
I ordered this? I didn't.
But it was my account, my phone number, my usual address.
Before I could process it, the car pulled away.
"Heading to the east side, right?" the driver said. "Long trip. Not many drivers go that way this late."
"Mm," I replied, still staring at my phone.
The order showed pickup at my current location, destination at my old neighborhood — where I'd lived three months ago.
But I'd moved.
I moved. No one knew. Only me.
"What time is it?" I suddenly asked.
The driver blinked. "Huh?"
I realized I'd been the one asking.
"Nothing," I said. "Just curious."
"Two eleven," he said, checking his screen. "Almost there. Ten more minutes."
I nodded and fell silent.
The car sped up. Streetlights streaked past just like before. I watched the lights and felt dazed. That night three months ago, I'd sat just like this, watching the window, feeling —
"How late do you drive?" I asked.
"Until three or four," he said. "Depends. When I'm tired, I call it a night."
"Can you really stop?"
He laughed. "Of course I can. If I don't want to drive, I go home and sleep. Why wouldn't I be able to?"
I didn't answer.
The car passed that intersection. The one with the bridge pillar.
I glanced over automatically. The pillar was still there, dark concrete. It looked like it really had deep scratches, pale in the streetlight.
"There was an accident here once," the driver suddenly said. "A driver died."
I turned to look at him.
"Heard about it when I started driving nights," he said, eyes on the road, tone casual. "A night driver dropped off his last passenger, crashed into that pillar on the way back. Died right there."
I said nothing.
"People say his ghost still drives around, can't stop working," he chuckled. "Just rumors. I've driven three years, never seen him."
I was quiet for a long time.
"What if," I said, "you did see him?"
He blinked. "What?"
"What if you saw that driver," I said, "what would you do?"
He thought for a second. "Probably… say hi."
"Just say hi?"
"What else?" he laughed. "He didn't hurt anyone. Just stuck. Say hello, be nice."
I didn't speak.
The car stopped outside my old neighborhood. I got out, tipped extra, and told him to head home early. He thanked me and drove off.
I stood at the gate, watching his taillights disappear around the corner.
Then I turned back.
I walked about five minutes, returning to that intersection.
The one with the bridge pillar.
I stood there and waited.
The night wind was bitter, making me shiver. Streetlights were dim, illuminating an empty road. A car occasionally passed, then vanished into the dark.
I waited a long time.
2:55 a.m.
3:00 a.m.
3:11 a.m.
Just as I was about to give up, I saw it.
The old gray Santana, license plate ending with three sevens.
It approached slowly from the other end of the road, exhaust puffing white smoke. Dim headlights lit up the next few meters.
I stepped forward.
The car stopped.
The driver's window rolled down.
That face: square jaw, thick eyebrows, chapped lips, gray jacket. He looked at me, eyes still unfocused, but his lips moved.
"What time is it?"
I looked into his eyes. "Three fourteen."
He hummed.
The window began to rise.
I suddenly reached out and pressed my palm against the glass.
"Uncle Zhou."
The window paused.
"I know who you are," I said. "I know you can't stop driving."
He didn't move.
"I have a question for you," I said. "You've asked 'what time is it' for three years. What do you really want to know?"
Silence.
A long, heavy silence.
Then he spoke.
"I want to know," his voice was so soft I could barely hear it, "what time I should have gone home that night."
I froze.
"My wife was waiting for me," he said. "She waited until three in the morning. She made me noodles, covered the bowl so they wouldn't get cold."
His lips trembled.
"If I'd quit ten minutes earlier, I never would've hit that pillar. If I'd quit ten minutes later, the passenger would still be in the car. If I —" he stopped.
I stood outside the car, wind cutting through my clothes, but I didn't move.
"I've been asking for three years," he said. "Every night, every trip. I want to know what time I should have stopped, so I could go home."
His eyes were dry. But in that moment, I knew he was crying.
"You're the first one who answered me in three years," he said. "No one else can hear me."
Something stuck in my throat.
"The passenger couldn't hear me either," he said. "He gave me money, told me to go home, then left. He didn't know I was asking him the time. He couldn't hear."
"I can hear you," I said.
He nodded.
"I know," he said. "I knew it when you got in."
The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was trying to smile.
"I want to thank you," he said. "That night three months ago, you gave me twenty yuan. I haven't accepted money in three years."
My eyes stung.
"And tonight," he said, "that ride order — I placed it for you."
I stared.
"I wanted to see you again," he said. "To say thank you. And —"
He paused.
"I want you to deliver a message for me."
"What message?"
His lips moved, voice soft but clear.
"Tell my wife," he said, "I ate the noodles."
I stood there, motionless, for a long time.
"I've tried so many times," he said, "to go see her. But I can't. I can only drive around this road. Over and over. Same old road. Same intersections."
He pointed at the pillar.
"Every time I pass this spot, I remember that night. The passenger leaving. Me driving back alone. Seeing the pillar, trying to turn — too late."
He lowered his head.
"Three years. I keep thinking: if I hadn't taken that fare, if I'd gone home earlier, would things have been different?"
I didn't know what to say.
"Just deliver the message," he said, looking up. "Tell her I ate it."
I nodded.
He smiled.
It was the first time I'd seen him smile. Faint, gentle, gone in a flash.
The window rolled up.
"Uncle Zhou," I called, "where are you going?"
He looked at me.
"I'm picking someone up," he said.
"Who?"
He didn't answer. The window closed completely. The car slowly pulled away into the dark.
I stood there, watching the gray Santana fade into the distance, smaller and smaller, until it vanished around the corner.
Streetlights still glowed. The pillar still stood. Wind still blew.
I stayed until my hands and feet went numb, then turned back.
After a few steps, I stopped and looked over my shoulder.
The road was empty. Nothing there.
The next afternoon, I went to the address from the news.
Uncle Zhou's home. An old neighborhood, six stories, red brick walls, a few dying hollies planted out front.
I knocked on the third-floor door.
A woman in her fifties opened it, hair streaked gray, deep lines on her face. She wore an old sweater with frayed cuffs.
"Can I help you?"
"Is this Mr. Zhou's home?"
She froze, studying me up and down.
"Who are you…"
"My surname is Lin," I said. "Three months ago, I rode in your husband's taxi."
Her expression shifted. Not fear, not suspicion — something complicated I couldn't name.
"Come in," she stepped aside.
The apartment was small, spotless. On the living room table stood a framed photo: that same ID picture, square jaw, thick eyebrows, chapped lips.
She poured me a cup of water.
"Three months ago?" she sat across from me. "You're sure it was him?"
I nodded.
She fell silent for a long time.
"My husband has been gone three years," she said. "Three years and three months."
I said nothing.
"Lots of people have come to me over these years," she said. "Police, reporters, his coworkers. All said they saw him, said he was still driving. I didn't believe them."
She looked at me.
"But you…"
She stopped.
"You have a smell on you," she said.
I sniffed myself. Nothing.
"Not from now," she said. "It's the kind of smell that lingers. The one he got from sitting in his car too long."
She paused.
"You were in his car."
I didn't know what to say.
She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to me.
A twenty-yuan note. Old, slightly curled at the edges, folded once.
"Three days ago," she said, "someone slipped this under the door."
I took it. A dark stain marked one corner, like water or something else.
"I recognize this twenty," she said. "The night he died, he had a stack of cash from his shift. When the police returned his things, I counted. One was missing."
She looked at me.
"This was the one."
I squeezed the note, my palm burning.
"What else did he say?" she asked.
I remembered Uncle Zhou's words.
"He said," I looked at her, "he ate the noodles."
Her eyes reddened.
"I made hand-pulled noodles for him that night," she said. "His favorite. I left them on the table, covered so they wouldn't cool. I waited all night. He never came home."
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
"I made a bowl every day after that," she said, wiping her eyes. "For a whole year. Then I couldn't anymore. Too many. No one to eat them."
I held the twenty, speechless.
She stood and went into the kitchen. When she returned, she held a bowl of noodles.
"I made this today," she said. "Still fresh. Didn't cover it yet."
She set the bowl on the table.
"Can you take this to him for me?"
I stared.
"I can't see him," she said. "But you know where to find him."
I looked at the bowl. Steam curled upward, white noodles, a fried egg on top.
I nodded.
That night, I returned to the intersection.
At 2:50 a.m., I waited beside the pillar. The wind was still cold. Streetlights still dim. I held the bowl wrapped in plastic and a towel to keep it warm.
3:05 a.m.
3:11 a.m.
3:17 a.m.
I almost thought he wouldn't come.
Then I saw the car.
The gray Santana, approaching slowly from the other side, exhaust puffing white smoke.
It stopped in front of me.
The window rolled down. That face. That voice.
"What time is it?"
"Three nineteen," I said.
He nodded, ready to close the window.
"Uncle Zhou," I called. "Wait."
I held out the bowl.
"Your wife made it."
He froze.
I held the bowl outside the car. The wind howled, my hands freezing, but I didn't move.
He stared at the noodles for a long time.
Then he reached out.
His hand was transparent. Through his palm, I could see the seat behind him. But his fingers still touched the bowl. Still held it.
"It's still warm," he said.
His voice had changed. No longer flat, no longer empty. There was something in it I couldn't describe.
"She made one every day," I said. "For a year."
He didn't speak.
"This one is today's," I said. "She asked me to bring it to you."
He held the bowl, head lowered, looking at the fried egg.
A long, long while.
Then he looked up.
"Thank you," he said.
I nodded.
He looked down again. The corner of his mouth moved, like he was smiling, or holding back tears.
"Tell her," he said, "I'm clocking out now."
The window rolled up.
The car slowly pulled away. This time, it drove fast, not slow like before. Its taillights shrank into the distance, then —
They vanished.
Not just out of sight. Gone. Right at that intersection, right next to the pillar, it simply disappeared.
Like it had never been there at all.
I stood there for a while.
No other car came.
I looked down at my hand. The twenty-yuan note was still there, the one his wife had given me. Old, curled, folded.
But now there was a line of tiny writing on it, like pen marks, or something else. I held it under the streetlight until I could read it.
The words were:
Noodles received. Coming home.
After that night, I never saw the car again.
Sometimes when I work late and pass that intersection, I stop for a moment. The pillar is still there, dark concrete. The scratch is still deep, pale under the lights.
But the gray Santana is gone.
And I never hear that voice asking, "What time is it?"
Sometimes I wonder where he went.
If he really did clock out. If he finally went home. If he got to eat the noodles his wife waited three years to give him. If he got to hold the woman who waited for him.
I don't know.
But I choose to believe it.
Because that night, when he held the bowl, something changed in his eyes.
They were no longer unfocused.
They lit up.
Much later, I was drinking with friends and told them the story. One asked me a question.
"That night," he said, "when you first got in the taxi — what time was it?"
I thought.
"Around two. I don't remember exactly."
"When you gave him the twenty — what time was that?"
I hesitated.
"Also… around two."
"Did you ever think," he looked at me, "what time he died?"
I froze.
The news said: 2:20 a.m., crash into the pillar.
I got in at around 2:00-something. I got out around 2:20. Exactly that time.
He asked me the time at 2:00, 2:11, 2:14…
He kept asking because he was forever stuck at that moment.
So where did I fit in?
What time did I step out of that car?
Was it 2:20 a.m.?
The exact moment he hit the pillar?
I don't know.
I only remember that night, I gave him twenty yuan. And I pulled it from my wallet.
But I hadn't used cash in three years.
Where did that money really come from?
I don't know.
Some things, the more you think about them, the more terrifying they become.
Like why I could hear him ask the time, when no one else could.
Like why I was the only one who could see his car.
Like why he kept asking, and I kept answering.
Maybe because, at that exact moment in time, we were the same.
I don't know.
And I don't want to.
But sometimes I still hear that voice.
Flat, empty, asking me all night long.
"What time is it?"
Now I think: maybe he wasn't asking me.
He was asking time itself.
He wanted time to remember him.
To remember the man who crashed at 2:20 a.m.
The husband who never got to eat his wife's noodles.
The driver who could never clock out.
He wanted time to remember —
He never made it home.
It's dark outside again. I check my phone.
1:58 a.m.
I should sleep.
But for some reason, I suddenly want to go downstairs.
To that intersection.
To stand by that pillar.
Maybe I'll see the car tonight.
Maybe not.
But if I do —
If he asks me what time it is, I think I'll answer.
Then I'll ask him one thing.
"Uncle Zhou… can you finally clock out today?"