Gordon stopped.
“This building is unsafe.”
“Then call the county.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
Jack closed the door.
Not locked.
Just closed.
The garage smelled like another decade.
Oil.
Metal.
Wood.
Dust.
A little mouse nesting somewhere.
Sophie stood motionless.
Jack watched her.
She remembered this place.
He could see it.
Not in her face exactly.
In the way she knew where things should be before her eyes adjusted.
“The lights won't work,” Jack said.
Sophie reached beneath a shelf.
Pulled an old breaker lever.
Half the fluorescent fixtures flickered.
Then stabilized.
Jack laughed.
“Of course.”
“Dad wired a battery backup.”
“Of course he did.”
She moved through the shop.
Old benches.
Tools.
Parts drawers.
Photographs.
Then she saw the motorcycle.
Center floor.
Assembly stand.
Bare polished fuel tank.
Custom black frame.
Incomplete engine.
Forks installed.
Rear wheel.
Wiring unfinished.
Sophie stopped breathing.
“That's it.”
Jack looked at her.
“You sure?”
She nodded.
“He started when I was born.”
Jack approached slowly.
The craftsmanship impressed him immediately.
TIG welds smooth as stacked coins.
Reinforced steering neck.
Custom brackets.
Fabricated battery box.
Not a showpiece.
A machine designed to be used.
Sophie placed one hand against the steel frame.
Her fingers trembled.
“He said we'd finish it when I turned twelve.”
Jack looked away for a moment.
Give her privacy without leaving.
Sophie whispered:
“He knew he wouldn't be here.”
Jack did not answer.
There was no useful answer.
She lifted the toolbox onto a workbench.
Opened it.
Inside:
Socket set.
Wrenches.
Small hammer.
Feeler gauges.
A folded square of blue shop paper.
Sophie stared.
“That wasn't there before.”
Jack stood beside her but did not touch.
She unfolded it.
The handwriting belonged to David.
Sophie,
If you're reading this, you made it through the blackberry door.
Good girl.
Sophie laughed once through her nose.
Jack smiled.
She kept reading.
A machine isn't just parts. It's a puzzle that talks if you know how to listen.
START WHERE YOU LEARNED TO LISTEN.
Jack frowned.
“Any idea?”
Sophie looked around.
“No.”
Then she closed her eyes.
Jack waited.
“Compressor.”
She opened them.
“What?”
“When I was seven.”
“Dad gave me a mechanic’s stethoscope.”
“He made me listen to engine walls.”
“He said metal tells you where it hurts.”
She pointed across the shop.
The old cast-iron air compressor sat in a corner beneath years of dust.
Beside it:
A wooden cabinet.
Sophie moved toward it.
Jack followed.
She found the brass latch beneath the bottom shelf.
Pulled.
A cedar panel released.