The monotonous nature of being a driver has turned driving itself into a dreadfully mundane occupation. And as time passes, even insignificant quirks become peculiarities. Klorend is a tranquil town; I believe nothing of great importance has ever occurred here, nor will it in the future. It is a small place, and after spending enough time as a driver, one can easily recognize all the passengers who board the bus.

I despise rainy days, and Tuesdays in particular. Yet it seems that Tuesdays are always rainy. As I open the doors, I habitually glance at the passengers through the rearview mirror. These small beings who entrust their lives and homes to me every day, without a hint of worry: the warm seats that effortlessly mold themselves into the most comfortable shape for each person; the elegant silk decorations that gracefully flutter in the air; the silver reflections on the floor, transforming the reality beneath into shades of black and white; the seemingly sturdy partition, bearing an unbearable weight, perhaps destined to collapse with a thunderous crash when a screw finally gives way; and of course, the air greedily filling every inch of available space... These individuals obediently board and disembark, everything in perfect order. However, at this moment, a face I have never seen before steps onto the bus: a man who dances without music, captivating my attention instantly. His movements alternate between painfully chilling and joyfully enticing, as if beckoning others to join in. Yet, from an outsider's perspective, this spectacle is undeniably bewildering and perplexing. I remain oblivious as to why he dances, what he dances, and for whom he dances. The discomfort and strangeness of this sight force me to turn my head, focusing intently on driving, although my gaze continuously drifts back to that disconcerting man. Perhaps an outsider has encountered some joyous occasion. In order to halt my exasperatingly relentless speculations, I forcefully interject with an explanation.

In the days that follow, that man never appears again, and gradually, I forget about his existence. Life returns to its routine path. Yet, just when the memory of that man has faded away, I see him once more. It is a clear Saturday morning, and only he and I are on the bus. The man boards from the west side of the city, displaying a newfound calmness. There is no dancing this time, nor any other inexplicable behavior. He simply sits quietly, lost in thought. As I mentioned before, driving is an overwhelmingly dull affair, and my boredom compels me to gather the courage to engage him in conversation. Initially, it is nothing more than superficial pleasantries, devoid of practical significance. I inquire about trivial matters, and he responds with plain indifference. The details have become hazy in my memory, but I recall that these exchanges fail to liven the atmosphere.

"What were you dancing that day?" The most astonishing scene of this tale unfolds next: the man startles, his gaze flickering as if someone has suddenly grabbed hold of him while he was walking down the street, only just now noticing my presence, an unfamiliar outsider. After a few seconds of bewilderment, he speaks.

"Sir, who are you? Why are you here?" These words completely reverse the current situation: the dumbfounded person has become me. Have other people in his eyes been mere air all along? Is his world devoid of substance? Suddenly, a vision emerges before me: in this blank realm，people simply materialize and evaporate without a trace.