The first thing she noticed was the smell.
Motor oil. Grease. Cigarettes. Sweat.
It clung to the walls of the garage like a ghost, heavy in the air, thick enough to taste. It wasn’t unpleasant. Not to her. It reminded her of her father’s old shop, of broken bikes and dirty hands. Of things that didn’t require pretending.
She stepped further inside.
A drop of sweat traced the curve of her spine as the summer heat pressed against her from all sides. Her car had died a mile out, engine wheezing, the hood smoking like a dying animal. She hadn’t panicked. She didn’t panic over things like that.
She walked.
And now she stood in the doorway of a nameless garage in the middle of nowhere. No receptionist. No music. Just the echo of her boots on concrete and the buzz of an overhead light strug
