The final rattle of the roll-up garage door echoed through the shop as John pulled it shut and twisted the deadbolt into place. The sun had long since vanished, leaving behind the familiar hush of a rural evening—just the buzz of a distant streetlamp and the rustle of wind through the trees.
He rubbed the back of his neck, muscles stiff from a full day hunched over engines. The scent of oil and old rubber clung to his shirt, and his hands were still stained with grease, though he'd rinsed them three times already.
John climbed the stairs to the apartment above the garage, expecting silence, maybe the soft hum of the old fridge or the faint static from the tiny radio in the kitchen.
But the first thing he noticed when he opened the door was the smell.
Not motor oil. Not coffee.
Lemon and something savory...
He blinked.
The apartment smelled clean. Not just "wiped down with a paper towel" clean—but truly, freshly cleaned. The windows had been cracked just enough to let in a cool breeze, and he caught the scent of dish soap and warm fabric softener.
Then the second smell hit him.
Food.
His stomach groaned before he could stop it. He hadn't eaten all day. Not unusual for him—he had a bad habit of losing time when he got lost in a project. One minute it was morning, the next thing he knew, the sun was gone and his hands were trembling from hunger.
He stepped further inside and found Sarah at the stove, standing barefoot in a pair of borrowed sweatpants and one of his old hoodies, sleeves rolled halfway up her arms.
She turned when she heard the door.
"Oh—hey," she said, a little nervous. "I hope you don't mind. I cleaned a bit. And… made dinner."
John looked around. The clutter was gone. Counters wiped. The floor swept. Even the throw blanket on the couch had been folded neatly and laid across the backrest.
He glanced toward the stove.
"What… is that?" he asked, already inching toward the smell.
"Nothing fancy. Just lemon chicken and rice. And I found some frozen vegetables in the back of the freezer."
His eyebrows lifted. "You found stuff in my freezer?"
She smiled, sheepish. "Yeah, I had to dig past a decade of pizza rolls and mystery meats."
He chuckled. "That sounds about right."
She grabbed a plate and started scooping food onto it. "I wasn't sure if you'd be hungry, but… I figured you probably forgot to eat."
John scratched at the back of his head, half-embarrassed, half-touched. "I usually do when I'm neck-deep in an engine."
"Figured."
She handed him the plate and gestured toward the little kitchen table.
He sat down without protest. The smell was unreal—lemony, buttery, and comforting in a way that hit somewhere deep in his chest. He didn't wait. He took a bite, and another, and another.
Sarah leaned against the counter, watching him.
"Jesus," he said through a mouthful, "this is the best thing I've eaten in… hell, probably years."
She laughed softly. "It's just chicken and rice."
He shook his head. "No. It's dinner. It's warm. And someone cooked it for me."
He looked up at her. "That hasn't happened in a long, long time."
Her expression softened. "Well... you've been taking care of me. I wanted to do something nice."
"You didn't have to."
"I know," she said, a little quieter. "But I wanted to."
John nodded, suddenly feeling something in his chest that wasn't hunger. Something gentler. Quieter. A kind of gratitude he hadn't felt in years.
Sarah grabbed her own plate and sat across from him. They ate in silence for a while, the kind that felt comfortable, like the kind that didn't need to be filled.
Eventually, she asked, "So what's your favorite thing to work on?"
He swallowed his bite, took a sip of water. "Probably transmissions. I like the precision of them. Every piece has to fit just right. No room for guesswork. Makes sense to me in a way most things don't."
She smiled. "Figures you'd like something that's impossible for most people to figure out."
He grinned. "I've been called stubborn."
"No," she said with mock surprise. "You?"
"I know, shocking."
They finished their food slowly, the light overhead dim but warm.
John leaned back in his chair when his plate was empty, exhaling deeply. "That was incredible, Sarah. Really."
She shrugged, but her cheeks tinted with color. "It's nice to cook for someone again."
"Was that something you liked doing… before?"
A shadow passed over her face, but she didn't look away.
"I used to," she said quietly. "Before it started feeling like a requirement instead of a kindness. Like if I didn't cook right or say the right thing… there'd be consequences."
He nodded slowly, not pushing, not asking more. Just holding the space.
Sarah looked around the apartment. "This place is small, but it's nice. It feels like it belongs to someone real."
John chuckled. "You mean someone who never throws anything away?"
"I mean someone who lives in his space," she said, "not just survives in it."
He looked down, smiling faintly at that.
They washed dishes together afterward, bumping elbows once or twice, laughing when the faucet hissed unexpectedly. It was normal. Soft. And that made it sacred.
When the last plate was drying in the rack, Sarah looked over at him.
"Thanks for letting me stay here."
He didn't hesitate. "You don't need to thank me for that. This place was too damn quiet before."
She smiled, but it was different this time—more relaxed. Like the walls between them weren't quite so tall.
John checked the clock. "I'll be up early. Got a customer coming in around eight. But you sleep in if you want. Stay up here, come down, whatever you feel like."
Sarah nodded. "I might come help again."
He raised an eyebrow. "You mean supervise me while I work?"
"Exactly. Someone has to."
He laughed, heading toward the back of the apartment. "I'll leave the shop door unlocked."
She stood in the kitchen, arms folded, watching him go.
And as he disappeared down the hall, she whispered into the quiet, "Goodnight, John."
John Harper woke with a strangled breath, sitting bolt upright in bed, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. The room was shrouded in darkness, the only light the faint glow from the clock on the wall—3:42 a.m.
He was soaked in sweat, the sheets tangled around his legs like restraints. His chest rose and fell too fast. For a moment, he didn't know where he was.
Then it came back to him.
The apartment.Above the garage.Safe.Quiet.Sarah was here—up the hall.
But the nightmare still clung to him like smoke. He couldn't breathe past it.
It always started with the phone ringing.
Not a cell phone. Not the one he carried now.The old wall phone in the shop, the one with a coiled cord and a low, mechanical ringer.
Riiiiing… Riiiiing…
He was elbow-deep in a busted transmission. Wiped his hands, cursing under his breath, and walked to the wall.
UNKNOWN CALLER.
He answered anyway.
"John Harper?"
"Yeah, speaking."
"This is Deputy Connors with the county sheriff's department…"
Even in the dream, he recognized the tone. Low. Controlled. Like the man was holding something back. Trying not to punch holes in someone's world with the words he was about to say.
"There's been an incident."
John's heart dropped.
"A young woman was found near the river crossing. We believe she may be your sister."
The words echoed.Was.Found.
Everything blurred.
Flashing red lights.Gravel under his boots.Crime scene tape slicing the air like a warning.
He walked through it all in slow motion, like moving through molasses. The deputy with the clipboard. The shape under the white sheet.
"No," he muttered in the dream. "Please, no…"
But no one heard him.
The sheet lifted.
Her hand.Then her jaw.Then her face.
Lilly.
Hair wet. Lip split. A bruise flowering across her temple, black and blue and still so fresh.
His knees buckled. But no one caught him.
The dream shifted.
Suddenly he was in her apartment—the one she used to share with Mark. The walls flickered with shadows. Something moved behind a door that wouldn't open. Every photo on the walls was cracked. Her laughter echoed, then twisted into crying.
And there she was.
Standing in the hallway.
Twenty-four again. Wearing that yellow hoodie she always stole from him.
She wasn't smiling.
"You saw the signs," she said.
John's throat tightened. "Lilly…"
"You knew what he was."
"I tried to get you out."
"But you didn't make me leave."
"I didn't know it would be the last time," he choked.
Her voice was a whisper now, but it filled the room like thunder."I needed you."
He reached for her.
She vanished.
Smoke through his fingers.
John jolted from the memory with a gasp and sat hunched over the edge of the bed, hands gripping his knees. His whole body trembled. He blinked hard against the moisture in his eyes and wiped a shaking hand down his face.
His heart didn't slow right away. Not until he stood and wandered into the kitchen, keeping his footsteps light so as not to wake Sarah. He flicked on the low light over the sink and poured himself a glass of water.
The nightmare always left him hollow. Wrung out. Furious with himself.
He leaned both hands against the counter, head bowed.
Lilly Harper. Age 24. Cause of death: undetermined.
The law never found proof.
Mark disappeared three days after she died.
No charges. No trial.
Just silence.
And a hole in John's chest that hadn't closed in nine years.
He took a long drink, letting the cold water anchor him in the present.
The apartment was quiet. Warm. The air smelled faintly of the blanket dryer sheet Sarah had used earlier that day.
He wondered if she'd had nightmares, too.
John closed his eyes, his voice little more than a whisper.
"I should've protected you, Lil."
No answer came.
Just the wind outside brushing against the windows, and the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall.