The Last Passenger – A Mysterious Ridez

It was a cold and rainy evening in Kocaeli. I had just finished a long and stressful day at work, and all I wanted was to go home, take a warm shower, and rest. As I drove through the empty streets, the rain tapped steadily on the windshield, and my headlights barely cut through the thick mist. The city felt strangely quiet — like it was holding its breath.

I turned onto a narrow road that passed by the old bus station, a place I usually avoided at night because of how deserted and eerie it felt. But this time, something caught my attention. There, standing alone by the bus stop, was an elderly man in a dark coat, holding a small suitcase. He was completely soaked but looked calm, even serene. As I slowed down, he raised his hand in a polite gesture and said softly, “Could you take me to the old station, please?”

At first, I hesitated. I didn’t usually pick up strangers, especially at night. But something about him — maybe the sadness in his eyes or the gentle tone in his voice — made me say yes. He got into the back seat without another word, and we started driving.

During the ride, the man remained mostly silent. He looked out the window as the rain continued to fall. I tried to make small talk, asking if he had waited long or if he lived nearby, but he only nodded or gave short answers. Still, his presence was oddly comforting.

After about ten minutes, we arrived at the old train station — a place that had been closed for years. I pulled over, turned off the engine, and looked back to let him know we had arrived.

But the back seat was empty.

My heart skipped a beat. I checked the door — it hadn’t opened. I got out of the car, looked around in the rain, and called out, but there was no sign of him. The street was completely deserted.

Confused and a little shaken, I opened the back door again. That’s when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before — an old black-and-white photograph lying on the seat. It was a picture of the same man, smiling, standing in front of what looked like the old station. On the back of the photo, written in faded ink, were the words:

“Thank you for the last ride.”

I froze. Who was he? Was it a ghost? A memory from the past? I had so many questions, but no answers. I kept the photo, and to this day, I still have it. Every time I look at it, I feel both wonder and unease.

Since that night, I always slow down when I pass by that old bus stop — just in case someone else is waiting for their last ride.