It was 7:50 AM. I feared I would be late for the appointment.

But something made me pause. Just across the street, a banner fluttered in the morning breeze—faded but defiant. It hung above the bookshop where I had spent so many quiet afternoons. The shop was closing. A few well-wishers had put up the banner in protest, hoping perhaps for a last-minute miracle. Another casualty of the internet economy, I thought.

The news stirred something deep in me. That bookshop had been a silent companion over the years. I often bought gifts there—mostly for birthdays, though truthfully, the birthdays were just an excuse. I wanted to be surrounded by pages and ink, by covers and the gentle rustle of paper. And now, it would all disappear. Quietly. Without fanfare. Like the passing of a season.

The clock nudged me back into motion. I gave the storefront one last look before heading to my appointment.

I arrived two minutes early, but the carpool driver— a young woman—was already waiting. I greeted her and introduced myself. Other passengers soon joined us, and we set off.

Carpooling brings with it a strange rhythm. Each ride feels familiar yet new. Some riders are shy, others spill their stories like open books. If you use it often, you find yourself repeating the same lines: who you are, what you do, why you ride. But you also hear stories—fragments of lives—that stay with you long after the journey ends.

Our driver had just graduated and recently started working as a librarian. The coincidence was striking, almost poetic. I couldn’t help my curiosity. I asked her about her work, how they organize the shelves, choose the magazines, decide what books to acquire. Her face lit up with every question—as if she too cherished this quiet world of words.

The drive was long, nearly three hours. About halfway through, she suggested a break. We all agreed. We stopped at a rest station, and I treated myself to a warm pain au chocolat.

Before continuing, she pulled into a petrol station. We pointed her toward the automated card terminal, but she politely declined. “Cash, if you don’t mind,” she said with a smile. She noted the pump number and drove over to the counter. Inside, a cashier—a woman in her fifties—waited behind a glass panel. The driver handed her the details and paid in coins and bills. The entire transaction took less than three minutes. No one in the car spoke. But we all felt it.

She broke the silence. “I just got a job,” she said, as if answering the question on all our minds. “I know how hard it is to find one. If I can do something—anything—that helps someone else keep theirs, I will.”

We often say millennials are digital natives—tech-savvy, hyperconnected, allergic to cash. What should I say about this millennial, then?