Taxi Vocational Licence 💎

Three years ago, the licence had been a different colour. A different name. A different man. Back then, Ivan had been an architect, drawing spires that touched rendered clouds. But a missed margin call, a wife’s quiet tears, and a bankruptcy court later, the only lines he drew were on a crumbling road map. The Council had taken his car, his house, his hope. They left him the debt.

Ivan watched her walk into the lobby, a ghost in a good coat. Then he tucked the fifty into the visor, right behind the vocational licence. Not as a tip. As a witness. taxi vocational licence

It was three times the fare.