Zhang Shengshi has been holding the steering wheel of a taxi for fifteen years, and the city's context is etched in his mind. From the breakfast stall at four o'clock in the morning to the neon lights of the bar at two o'clock in the evening, his back seat has carried all kinds of people. There are students catching the train crying while holding their schoolbags, white-collar workers working overtime sighing at their mobile screens, quarreling couples having a cold war in the back row, and old people returning home shakily taking out their crumpled change. He rarely spoke, just turned the steering wheel silently and sent the passengers to their destination. But the joys and sorrows of this city had already quietly seeped into his life as the wheels turned. He has seen the brightest smiles and heard the most suppressed cries. The steering wheel not only holds the direction, but also holds the stories of countless people, and his own story is slowly unfolding as he travels day after day.
