Lucy hugs me—sudden, fierce. "I'm proud of you."
"For what?"
"For still being here."
I hug her back. Tight. Because she's right. Eighteen months ago, I wasn't sure I'd make it this far.
• • •
The garage is attached to the house—two-car, which is ridiculous because I only have one. Well. Half of one. I unlock the side door. Hit the lights. And there she is.
My 1967 Shelby GT500.
Still black under the dust and tarp. Still mine.
The restoration shop delivered her last week. "As far as we could go without the owner's input," the guy said. "Engine's rebuilt. Frame's solid. But the paint, the interior, the final touches—that's personal. You need to decide."
I pull the tarp off slowly. The front end is pristine now—no crumpled metal, no shattered glass. Hood smooth. Headlights new. The frame straightened, reinforced. But she's unpainted. Primer gray. Waiting. The interior is gutted—seats removed, dashboard bare. Bones of a car that used to be whole.
I run my hand along the hood. Cold metal. Potential. The shadow in the corner of the garage shifts—not threatening, not aggressive. It moves closer, almost curious, following the path of my hand along the primer. I feel the temperature drop slightly, but it's not the bone-deep cold from before. Just… presence. Watching. Waiting.
I don't pull my hand away.
Lucy stands beside me. "She's beautiful."
"She's a shell."
"She's yours."
I look at the car. At what's left. At what could be. The mechanic said six more months if I want her perfect—original paint, custom interior, every detail exactly how it was. But that car belonged to a different woman. The one who drove drunk into walls. The one who thought love was worth dying for.
"The mechanic said six more months if I want her perfect," I say. "Original paint. Custom interior. Every detail exactly how it was."
"Do you?"
I think about it. About the woman who drove this car eighteen months ago—drunk, crying, broken. About the crash that should have killed her. About starting over.
"No," I say finally. "Not exactly how it was."
Lucy raises an eyebrow. "Different paint?"
"Different everything." I walk around the car slowly, the shadow following at a distance. "New paint. New interior. Same bones, but… evolved. Better. Stronger."
"Like you."
I almost smile. "Like I'm trying to be."
The shadow in the corner of the garage doesn't follow us out. It stays. Watching over the car like a guard dog. I glance back once before closing the door.
"Let's go see the mechanic," I say. "Figure out what comes next."
Lucy grabs her keys. "You driving?"
I laugh—short, sharp. "Not yet. But soon."
We head out, leaving the Mustang in the garage. Waiting. Like me.
The shadow in the corner watches. Not moving. Not whispering. Just waiting.
