Taxi Vocational Licence Official

The rain was a living thing that night, slicking the cobblestones of the old town into mirrors. Ivan clenched the steering wheel of his battered Skoda, the “TAXI” sign on the roof a faint, jaundiced glow. The leather of the vocational licence, laminated and clipped to the sun visor, felt heavier than plastic and paper had any right to be.

Ivan’s throat tightened. He reached up and tapped the laminated card on the visor. “This,” he said quietly, “is everything. The last thing. You hold onto the last thing.” taxi vocational licence

It was three times the fare.

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. The rain was a living thing that night,