The day was already half over by the time Elena looked up from the engine bay.
Sunlight had turned gold around the edges, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The hum of the garage radio played low in the background—just enough noise to keep her anchored, not enough to distract.
She wiped her hands on a rag and moved toward the workbench, mentally cataloging what still needed to be done, already prepping for the next task.
The bell over the front door jingled. She didn't look up at first.
"Be with you in a sec," she called, grabbing the socket wrench.
A familiar voice answered—low, a little older, threaded with something warm and worn-in.
"No rush Lenny, i've waited longer for your coffee than your attention."
She froze. Turned slowly.
Ryan novak.
Leaning in the doorway like he owned it. Still tall and lean. Hair a little longer now, sun-lightened at the tips. Fitted jeans, black tee, no trace of pretence. He looked older, lived in. Confident.
She was sixteen. He was twenty-two. Her dad's apprentice, sort of. They were tight. Ryan was learning, watching, picking up everything he could.
And six months later, he was gone. No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone.
"Ryan?" She said, voice flat with disbelief she didn't bother hiding.
He stepped inside, eyes scanning the garage. "Didn't think I'd see this place again."
Elena crossed her arms. "Why are you here?"
He gave a half-smile. "Just passing through. Thought I'd see what the place looks like after all this time."
She didn't smile back.
He pulled a folded photo from his back pocket, set it gently on the bench. "Your mom found this, said you should have it."
She glanced at it, then back at him.
"You two fought," she said. "You and my dad. That's why you left."
Ryan's smile faded.
"Yeah," he said simply. "We did."
"What about?"
He shook his head. "Doesn't matter now."
"It might've then."
Ryan's jaw shifted. He looked like he wanted to say more—but didn't.
"I didn't know he got sick," he said. "Not until later."
Elena nodded once, tight and sharp. "I figured."
A long silence stretched between them. Ryan finally looked back at the garage. "Still smells like engine grease and frustration."
"You helped build that."
"I know."
He took a step back, suddenly unsure where to stand.
"If you ever need a break from all this... I've got space at the shop. It's not far."
"I'm not running."
"Didn't say you were."
He hesitated in the doorway, then added softly: "You've got his hands, Lenny. But you don't have to carry what he did."
Then he was gone. The garage door clicked shut behind him.
Elena didn't move for a long moment. Just stood there, hands loose at her sides, eyes fixed on the folded square of paper sitting quietly on the workbench.
She didn't want to open it. Didn't want to see her dad smiling back at her. Didn't want to feel the things she'd spent months tucking under work orders and grease and silence.
But her feet didn't carry her away. They stepped forward. She reached out. Picked up the photo with hands that suddenly didn't feel so steady.
It was worn soft from time. The crease through the middle had been folded more than once. She unfolded it carefully.
The image hit her like a warm rush—familiar and far.
Her dad stood in front of the garage, younger, wearing the same old cap he wore every day of her childhood. Grease on his cheek, one hand on a wrench, the other slung casually over the shoulder of someone else—
Ryan.
Maybe seventeen, maybe eighteen. Laughing. Sun in his eyes. He looked so young she almost didn't recognize him. Her dad looked proud.
She didn't remember the photo being taken. Maybe she was inside. Maybe she'd been too young to care. Now she couldn't stop looking. Her thumb drifted over her dad's face, then Ryan's.
They looked like family.
And then Ryan was gone. And her dad got sick. And she was alone in this place, trying to keep is from falling apart—like it was the only way to keep Him from fading.
She blinked hard. The photo loose in her hands, thumb pressed gently to the faded corner.
Her vision blurred before she even realised what was happening. One tear slipped down. Then another. It wasn't just the memory. It was what came with it.
Her mom hadn't been there when she was a kid. She'd left early—decided whe wasn't built for motherhood and walked away.
Elena never hated her for that. She had her dad. That was enough. But then, years later, her mom came back. Said she wanted to reconnect. Be a part of Elena's life. Try again.
And Elena—grudgingly, carefully—let her in.
They weren't close. But it worked. A little. Then her dad got sick. And her mom left again.
"It's too much." she'd said. "You're stronger than me, baby."
That was the moment it broke. Because Elena wasn't a little girl anymore. And this time, she Knew what was missing.
She folded the photo and tucked it away. Gently, this time. Then turned back to the car.
Because if there is one thing her dad taught her—it was how to keep going, even when the people who should stay...don't.