Soferul -

The asphalt has its own rhythm. You learn to read it like a heartbeat. A slight vibration tells you the tire is tired; a change in the wind tells you a storm is coming over the mountains. They call me the driver because that’s the only part of me they see: hands at ten and two, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The driver as a silent witness to human drama. Soferul

The wheel is the only thing that stays still. Everything else—the flickering yellow streetlamps of the city, the silver blur of the rain, the faces that appear in the rearview mirror and vanish just as quickly—is a ghost. The asphalt has its own rhythm

I don’t talk much. In this job, silence is the best currency. People think the glass and steel of the car are for protection, but they’re actually for watching. I’ve seen business empires crumble in the backseat during a twenty-minute ride to the airport. I’ve seen lovers say goodbye with their eyes while their lips said something entirely different. They call me the driver because that’s the