By the time dawn spilled pale and uncertain over the rusted roof of Harper's Garage, John had already drained two mugs of bitter coffee and stripped the engine bay of a '97 Ford F-150 to its skeleton.
The overhead lights buzzed softly, and the garage air was filled with the comforting smells of grease, old steel, and diesel—a kind of holy incense to a man like John.
He hadn't slept after the nightmare. Couldn't. So instead, he'd moved through the apartment like a ghost, brewing a pot of coffee at four in the morning and heading down to the shop before the sun had even thought about rising.
Wrench in hand, he had buried himself in the kind of work that demanded focus but not feeling. A temporary fix for long-standing wounds.
Around 8:07, the front door creaked open, and the familiar jingle of the bell tied to the knob rang once—followed by a muttered curse and a shuffle of boots on concrete.
"Christ almighty, it's cold enough to freeze a dog's tongue to a tailpipe," came the raspy, gravel-dragged voice of Clyde.
John didn't look up.
He heard the slow footsteps, the unmistakable gait of a man whose knees had survived too many years of labor and whiskey. Then the pause.
"Huh," Clyde said. "Well, I'll be damned."
Still hunched over the engine, John sighed quietly through his nose.
"You swept," Clyde added, stepping farther inside. "The hell's gotten into you? The floor don't crunch when I walk. You finally hire one of those fancy cleaning ladies from town?"
"Hi, Clyde," John muttered without turning around.
The old man didn't answer right away. He was walking the space, inspecting the benches like a sheriff inspecting a crime scene.
"And these invoices," Clyde said, tapping a clipboard he found near the register. "Dated. Organized. Written like a human being. Real letters, not your usual 'looks-like-I-used-a-stump-for-a-pencil' scribble."
He walked back toward John, still holding the clipboard. "So what, you wake up possessed this morning?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Clyde gave a bark of a laugh. "You sure don't. Just like you didn't know about the time you poured diesel into a Chevy that runs unleaded."
John finally looked up. "You're never letting that go, are you?"
"Nope. Just like I'm not letting you claim this—" he held up the neatly written invoice, "—came out of those butcher hands of yours. I've seen your handwriting. Pretty sure even God couldn't read it."
John offered a tired half-smile and turned back to the truck.
Clyde wandered closer to the bay, his hands behind his back like a retired general surveying a battlefield. His gaze landed on the array of parts beside John and then on the one currently installed.
"Hold up."
John didn't move.
"You put that part on already?"
John paused. "Yeah. It matches the part number I had in the log."
"No, it don't," Clyde said flatly. "That there's an E-series bracket. You need an F-series. Subtle difference, but that thing's gonna rattle itself loose in two weeks, and your customer'll be back here with a busted mount and a bone to pick."
John looked again. Studied the bracket. Realized—dammit—Clyde was right.
He grunted. "How the hell do you see that from ten feet away?"
Clyde tapped his temple. "Old eyes. Full of wisdom. And bad decisions. I've put more bolts in engines than you've had hot meals, Harper."
John exhaled, pulling the part back off. "Thanks."
Clyde leaned against a workbench, watching him work. "You seem off today. Like... more off than usual."
"Didn't sleep."
"Yeah, you and me both. But I don't usually come in to find my job done and the floor lookin' like Jesus is about to walk through it."
John didn't respond. Just wiped his hands on a rag and set the wrong part aside.
Clyde gave him a look. "You don't gotta say it. But if this is about a girl, or a ghost, or both... you know I've buried enough friends to know when a man's dragging something behind him."
John stared at the bolts in the engine bay.
Clyde let the silence sit for a moment, then pushed himself off the bench.
"I'll make the coffee," he said, heading toward the back room. "And if that neat handwriting shows up again, I'm calling a priest."
The door to the shop creaked open again just as Clyde was grumbling about the coffee filter being "flimsier than a politician's promise." John didn't even look up from the engine.
But then came a softer voice, hesitant but clear:"Um… I brought muffins."
John straightened, wiping his hands on a rag as Sarah stepped into the garage, clutching a small container wrapped in a dish towel. Her hair was still a bit damp from a shower, pulled into a loose braid over her shoulder, and she wore one of the new sweatshirts they'd picked up at Walmart—navy blue and too big, but warm.
Clyde turned, eyebrows lifting high on his weathered face as he took her in.
"Well, hell," he said, setting down the coffee pot. "Unless these are for me, I'll be deeply offended."
Sarah smiled shyly and held out the container. "Blueberry. I found the mix in the cupboard."
Clyde accepted it with a dramatic sniff. "You cook and you swept? Sheesh, Harper, you better marry this one before she comes to her senses."
John shot him a look. "Jesus, Clyde."
He turned to Sarah and gestured between them. "Sarah, this is Clyde—he wanders in here, drinks my coffee, and occasionally does some decent work when he's not giving me hell."
Clyde held out a calloused hand. "Pleasure, miss."
She shook it gently. "Hi."
John added, a little more carefully, "Sarah's a friend. She's… staying here for a while."
Clyde raised an eyebrow. "A friend? Since when do you have friends? Last I checked, your social life consisted of engine parts and regret."
Sarah laughed softly, covering her mouth with her fingers. "We're… new friends."
Clyde eyed her, his expression shifting slightly. He saw the bruises, just like John knew he would. The one faintly visible near her collarbone, and the pale green marks still fading across her wrist.
His voice lost its playful edge. "John didn't put those bruises on you, did he?"
The room went quiet.
Sarah blinked. "What? No. No, he didn't."
Clyde narrowed his eyes slightly, more curious than aggressive. "Then who did?"
Her smile faltered. Her shoulders tensed just a bit. "It's… complicated."
Clyde's eyes lingered. "That right?"
John stepped in fast. "Clyde."
The older man looked over. "What? I'm just asking."
"Cut it out."
Clyde held his hands up, backing off. "Alright, alright. Don't get your carburetors in a twist."
Sarah seemed unsure for a moment, then offered Clyde a weak but genuine smile. "I appreciate you asking… even if it's blunt."
Clyde gave a grunt that could have meant anything and peeled back the dish towel. "These better be edible."
He took a bite. His eyebrows rose. "Well, I'll be damned. These might actually be worth coming in for."
"I'll try not to take that as an insult," Sarah said softly, a little warmth returning to her voice.
Clyde turned to John. "So what, she bakes, cleans, and doesn't run screaming from your face? What's the catch?"
"She's not dating me, Clyde."
Clyde grunted. "Well, then maybe she's got sense after all."
Sarah laughed again, the sound light but still a little cautious.
John rolled his eyes. "She wanted to come down and hang around the shop today. Keep things quiet. You cool with that?"
Clyde gave Sarah a sideways glance and shrugged. "Long as she doesn't rearrange my toolbox."
"I don't even know what half those tools do," she said.
"Good. Don't touch 'em," Clyde replied, grinning.
Sarah moved quietly to the side of the shop where John had set up a stool for her earlier. She sat with her legs crossed, slowly nibbling on a muffin while John returned to the engine bay.
Clyde gave John a long look but didn't say anything more. He poured his coffee and shuffled to the opposite workbench to tinker with an old carburetor, muttering to himself about "younger generations and their trauma."
But for once, the garage didn't feel heavy.
It felt… lived in.
And maybe even a little bit safe.