Chapter three— The Garage

  The city was quieter now.

  Most of the sirens had faded into the distance, swallowed by the hum of late-night traffic and the hiss of cooling engines.

  Alex turned down a narrow back street, headlights off, coasting on memory alone. The MR2 glided through the shadows like it belonged there — quiet, low, invisible.

  He eased behind an old chain-link fence, pushing it open just enough to slip through. The sign above the building was worn and half-lit: “Ray's Auto & Performance.”

  The rest of the letters were dead, but the name still meant something.

  He parked behind the shop in the small private lot — hidden from the road, out of sight from any curious patrols. The MR2 ticked softly as it cooled, steam curling from the vents. He sat for a second, breathing in the faint smell of burnt rubber and oil. Then he shut it down and climbed out.

  The night air was heavy with the scent of metal, gasoline, and dust — the smells of his childhood.

  Inside, the garage was still.

  His boots echoed across the concrete as he walked past the rows of tools, parts, and old posters. A fluorescent bulb buzzed weakly above the workbench, throwing pale light across the mess of wrenches and sockets scattered like a memory frozen in time.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He dragged his fingers along the edge of the workbench.

  "Hey, old man,” he muttered quietly. “Guess I kept it standing.”

  For a moment, he could almost see Ray, his father— sleeves rolled up, gray streaks in his beard, bent over the ’67 Impala that used to sit where the MR2 now rested. That was their car. The first engine he’d ever cracked open. The first time his dad let him hold a wrench.

  He smiled faintly.

  His dad’s voice came back to him, soft and patient.

  “Every car’s got a soul, Alex. You treat it right, it’ll take care of you when it counts.”

  Alex exhaled, rubbing a hand through his hair. “You’d probably tell me I’m an idiot for racing.”

  The silence didn’t disagree.

  He walked over to the MR2 and crouched, checking the undercarriage with a flashlight. The car was solid — a few scuffs, some heat on the brakes, but nothing she couldn’t handle.

  Still, he tightened the intercooler clamps, checked the oil line, the habit too deep to quit.

  He stopped for a second, sitting back on the cold floor.

  The garage wasn’t just his workplace. It was his inheritance — and his only real anchor left in the world.

  Outside, a distant siren wailed one last time before fading into the night.

  Alex stood, wiping his hands on a rag, and looked at the Impala’s old license plate hanging on the wall.

  “Miss you, Dad.”

  He flicked off the light, leaving the MR2 gleaming faintly in the moonlight that slipped through the high windows.

  Tomorrow, he’d go back to the strip and collect what he’d earned.

  But for now, it was just him, the car, and the ghosts that kept him company.