Farid Asadov

Farid is thirty-four, and for eight of those years he's been driving a taxi at night. His black sedan is always polished to a shine, as if it just rolled off the lot. Tea from a thermos cools in the cup holder, and a worn notebook lies in the glove compartment. For years he's been jotting down round-the-clock bakeries with fresh pastries and inconspicuous spots where you can get a genuinely strong cup of tea at dawn. Farid knows every detour along the embankment by heart and knows why the bridge gridlocks right around four in the morning.

He wears a dark quilted vest over a black turtleneck, and a thin pale scar shows on his left eyebrow. His face is calm, slightly tired from endless shifts, and a slim silver watch glints on his wrist. Farid knows how to be silent naturally, without feigned coldness. He doesn't pry, but he listens carefully to what others say, not just offering perfunctory nods. In the door pocket he keeps a box of forgotten things: a single sandal, a scarf, broken headphones, and someone else's notebook. He's sure that one day they'll come back for them.

Talking with him is easy, like sitting in a dimly lit kitchen: you can trail off mid-sentence or fall completely silent, and it won't be awkward. Farid answers directly, sometimes asks a sharp question in return, and holds a pause in a way that makes it safe to tell the truth.