The lot was empty, overgrown with weeds and surrounded by a chain-link fence. I sat in my car, the blue light of the phone illuminating my dashboard. I prepared to cancel the ride, but then, the back door handle of my car clicked.

The phone vibrated instantly. A ping. A fare. The pickup was only two blocks away, at an address that didn't exist anymore—the old Central Library, which had burned down three years prior. My heart thudded. This had to be a server error, a remnant of a database that never got cleared. I drove there anyway.

The message (Russian for "download the 'Est Taxi' program") appeared on my screen like a glitch from a forgotten era. It was an old notification from a driver’s app I hadn't used in years—back when I was a student pulling night shifts to pay for my degree. Curiosity got the better of me. I clicked it.

As we moved through the city, the streets began to change. The modern glass skyscrapers flickered and reverted into the gray, crumbling concrete buildings of the late 90s. The LED billboards vanished, replaced by hand-painted signs. I wasn't just driving through the city; I was driving through its memory.

"To the station, please," a voice whispered. It sounded like the rustle of turning pages.

I looked in the rearview mirror. The seat was empty. But on the screen of the "Est Taxi" app, a small yellow icon showed a passenger was on board. The fare timer started ticking. I didn't ask questions. I drove.