I was returning home alone at three in the morning when I climbed into a taxi. The driver barely spoke, but he kept glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
His stare made me uncomfortable.
When we reached my building, I paid quickly, rushed inside, and began climbing the stairs to my eighth-floor apartment. The elevator was broken, and the hallway was almost completely dark.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
I looked back and saw the taxi driver entering the stairwell.
My heart began pounding.
I started running, but his footsteps grew louder. By the sixth floor, he was close enough to grab me.
“Wait!” he shouted, reaching inside his jacket.
I turned, ready to scream.
But he pulled out my wallet.
“You left this in my car,” he said, breathing heavily.
Before I could thank him, his expression became serious.
“There’s something else,” he whispered. “A man followed our taxi from the bar and waited outside when you got out.”
The driver had entered the building because he feared the stranger might follow me upstairs.
We immediately called the police. Officers found the man hiding near the back entrance with photographs of me on his phone.
That night, the person I feared most turned out to be the one who protected me.
