Three years ago, he had hung his PDVL in the glove compartment like a trophy. Fresh out of retrenchment from a tech firm, driving a private hire car felt like freedom. He loved the quiet hum of the engine at 3 AM, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon, the anonymous passengers who slept in his back seat. He was a captain of a tiny metal ship.
During the COVID circuit breaker, he had ferried an elderly woman from Mount Elizabeth Hospital to a nursing home in Jurong. She was crying, not from pain, but because she hadnāt seen her son in six months. Liam had driven an extra 15 kilometersāunpaidāto pass by her sonās condo just so she could wave from the window. pdvl renewal
He wasnāt renewing a licence. He was renewing a promise he made to himself: that he would keep moving, even when the road was dark. Three years ago, he had hung his PDVL
Liam leaned back in his chair. The warehouse job paid the bills, but the road called to something elseāthe small mercies of a safe ride, the silent companionship of a strangerās GPS voice, the fleeting human connection across the back seat of a Hyundai. He was a captain of a tiny metal ship