Short Story: Clarissa and Her Car

Humanoids could well be the next big thing after AI. Before they invade our daily lives, here is a short story and image generated using ChatGPT to remind us on what it means to be human lest we become disconnected from our soul.

Clarissa’s Honda Fit was the color of old rain—silver softened by years of sun and dust—and it waited for her the way a patient animal waits at the door. The multistorey carpark had its own breathing: the echo of footsteps, the hollow cough of engines turning over, the slow drip of condensation from air-conditioning units above. At this hour, late afternoon easing toward evening, the place was cool and dim, its concrete pillars striped with long shadows.

She eased herself into the driver’s seat, kicked off her flats, and leaned the seat back just enough for the tension in her shoulders to unclench. The car smelled faintly of citrus wipes and the kopi she sometimes forgot in the cup holder. When she closed her eyes, the outside world thinned to a hum. Here, inside this small, faithful box of metal and fabric, she could pause. She could be nobody in particular.

Uncle Lee saw her often.

He was a man of routes and rituals—wet market first, then the neighbourhood mall, the same plastic bags cutting into his fingers each time. He had noticed the silver Honda months ago, always in the same corner, always with a young woman inside, sometimes asleep, sometimes staring out at nothing. He would glance, then look away, telling himself not to pry. In Singapore, everyone was busy surviving their own weather.

But that day, the air felt heavier.

He heard it before he saw it: a sound that didn’t belong to engines or footsteps. A muffled breaking, like something tearing slowly. Clarissa was bent over the steering wheel, her shoulders shaking, her face buried in her arms. The windows were fogged from her breath.

Uncle Lee hesitated. He stood there with a bag of vegetables in one hand and a packet of tofu in the other, feeling suddenly clumsy. Then he knocked lightly on the glass.

Clarissa startled, lifting her head. Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet. For a moment she looked as if she might drive off just to escape being seen. Instead, she cracked the window open an inch.

“Miss… are you okay?” Uncle Lee asked, his voice careful, as if it might bruise her.

She nodded too quickly. Then shook her head. The truth slipped out between the two gestures.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I didn’t realise—”

“No need sorry,” he said. “I pass by often. I see you rest here. Today… different.”

There was a pause, filled by the distant slam of a car door somewhere above them.

Clarissa took a breath. The words came unevenly, as if they had been waiting a long time for permission.

“This car,” she said, patting the dashboard with an almost apologetic tenderness, “it’s my safe place. I know it sounds silly.”

Uncle Lee smiled faintly. “Not silly.”

She looked surprised, then went on.

“I drive after work. Sometimes just to the coast, sometimes nowhere special—East Coast Park, Changi, Mount Faber at night. When things feel too loud, I come back here and sleep a bit. The seat fits me just right.” She laughed softly, a small, broken sound. “It’s been with me through everything. Job changes. Breakups. My dad falling sick. Long drives where I didn’t know what I was driving toward, only that I needed to keep moving.”

Her fingers traced the worn edge of the steering wheel.

“Today,” she said, “I found out my contract won’t be renewed. I sat here thinking about how this car has carried me so far, and suddenly I was so tired. Not of driving. Just… tired.”

Uncle Lee set his bags down carefully on the ground. He leaned against the pillar, the concrete cool through his shirt.

“You know,” he said after a while, “I used to talk to my old bicycle. Every morning, same one, ride to work. When my wife passed, that bicycle still waited for me downstairs. Some days, that was enough reason to go out.”

Clarissa looked at him then, really looked. The lines around his eyes were deep but kind. His hands were steady.

He continued, “Objects don’t judge. They just… stay. But people—people can stay too, sometimes. Even strangers.”

The light shifted. Evening slipped fully into the carpark, bringing with it the smell of dinner from nearby flats. Clarissa rolled the window down a little more. The air felt easier.

“Thank you for knocking,” she said. “Most people would’ve walked past.”

Uncle Lee chuckled. “Maybe I walk slower now.”

They shared a quiet smile. Nothing grand passed between them—no solutions, no speeches. Just two lives touching briefly, like cars passing on a long road, headlights acknowledging one another in the dark.

When Clarissa eventually started the engine, the Honda hummed softly, familiar and reassuring. She adjusted her seat, wiped the last of her tears away, and felt lighter—not because everything was fixed, but because she had been seen.

Uncle Lee picked up his groceries and continued on his route.

Behind him, the silver car pulled out gently, carrying Clarissa toward wherever she would go next, holding her as it always had—now warmed by the simple, unexpected kindness of a knock on the window.

Thank you for reading Daily Refreshing.