I swallowed hard.
Eight months ago.
That was when Dad had first started feeling sick.
My eyes wandered to the back of the garage. A large wooden cabinet stood beside the workbench.
Inside were dozens of carefully labeled drawers: every screw, every bolt, every bracket.
Nothing was random.
Everything had a place.
Dad had prepared this garage so someone else could finish the work.
Someone.
Or... me.
A small envelope rested on the top shelf.
My name was written across the front.
Just "Nathan."
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
It wasn't a long letter.
Just a few handwritten lines.
"Nathan,"
"I always hoped we'd finish her together."
"Since we can't, finish her for me."
"Good things take time."
"Love,"
"Dad"
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My throat tightened.
There were no explanations, no apology, no speech about inheritance.
Just trust.
He believed I would understand.
For the first time since the lawyer handed me that rusty key, I realized Dad hadn't left me a mystery.
He'd left me a promise.
And I intended to keep it.
I drove back to the garage the following Saturday.
Then again, the Saturday after that.
Before long, it became a routine.
I'd unlock the red door just after sunrise, turn on the lights, put an old radio on the workbench, and spend the next several hours picking up exactly where Dad had left off.
Some jobs were easy.
Installing the new carpet.
Reattaching trim pieces.
Polishing chrome.
Others took days.
The engine sat on a stand in the corner, already rebuilt but waiting to be lowered into the car. I had never done that by myself before.
Several times, I caught myself reaching for my phone to call Dad.
