Scene 1 — The Garage in Spring
The tarp came off with a sigh.
Dust fell like powdered sunlight across the white GR86, quiet under the flicker of the shop's backlight.
Kenta crouched beside it, wrench in hand, hair a mess, noodles forgotten on the step.
He'd been here for hours.
The same bolt. The same stubborn silence when he turned the key.
Kenta: "Still nothing, huh?"
No answer, just the soft tick of cooling metal.
The car smelled like rain and patience.
Scene 2 — Month One
He learned where everything was by touch: sockets, wrenches, the shape of defeat.
Sometimes Mika stood in the doorway, holding a flashlight too low.
Mika: "You talk to it more than to people."
Kenta: "It listens better."
Mika: "That's concerning."
She wrote notes while he worked — torque numbers, engine codes, snack expenses.
When she left, she took the light with her, and the garage went quiet again.
Scene 3 — Month Two
Boxes began to pile up — parts from the port, some borrowed, some begged for.
Ryo and the Saints stopped by once, dropping a cracked gearbox and a paper bag of fried chicken.
Ryo: "She'll purr again. Might just need more ghosts."
Kenta: "I have enough."
Ryo: "Then stop being one."
They stayed long enough to eat, laugh, and vanish into the fog.
Kenta wiped grease off his hands, the sound of engines fading down the coast.
Scene 4 — Month Three
Kaiya set a bowl of noodles on the hood one afternoon — steaming, precise, perfect.
Kaiya: "You can't fix metal with mood."
Kenta: "You'd be surprised."
Kaiya: "You'd be wrong."
She watched him scrape rust off the fender, motion steady.
Kaiya: "You know, heat treats steel. Makes it stronger.
Breaks it first, though."
Kenta didn't answer. He just nodded, eyes on the metal.
She left the bowl there until the broth went cold.
Scene 5 — Month Four
Teo began leaving tools out overnight.
Never said why. Never said he was watching.
But every morning, Kenta found a new one: cleaner, sharper, lined in order beside the GR86.
He worked later each night.
Teo sometimes stood by the door, silent shadow, towel over his shoulder.
Teo: "Find your pace."
Kenta: "I'm trying."
Teo: "No. You're forcing."
Kenta looked up. "You always this encouraging?"
Teo: "You're still here, aren't you?"
That was enough.
Scene 6 — Month Five
Summer crept in.
The shop buzzed with fans, broth, laughter.
Kenta spent afternoons under the hood, hands blistered and steady.
Mika brought him cold barley tea. Kaiya ran tests on an old carburetor just to understand it.
Teo never asked about progress — only if Kenta was eating.
Once, as thunder rolled across the bay, Teo murmured from the doorway:
Teo: "The road waits longer than people do."
Kenta didn't ask what that meant. He didn't need to.
Scene 7 — Month Six
One night, without ceremony, the GR86 coughed once.
Not loud — just breathing.
A thin line of smoke, a pulse of light across the dash.
Kenta didn't cheer. He just sat in the driver's seat, forehead against the wheel, exhaling like he'd been holding it all season.
From the kitchen window, Teo looked up from his broth pot.
Kaiya leaned beside him, arms folded.
Kaiya: "Took him six months."
Teo: "Good. He'll remember every day of it."
The engine idled, soft and human.
Outside, the rain returned — steady, cleansing, gentle against steel.
Kenta whispered,
"Guess we're moving again."
End of Episode 6 — "Six Months of Rust."