The name landed inside me like a small stone dropped into deep water.
Mara.
For a moment, something moved at the edge of my memory.
I stared.
She noticed.
“Something wrong?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Marcus looked between us.
Then smiled.
“Nice to meet you, Mara.”
She handed him a pastry.
He accepted it gratefully.
Then leaned toward me.
“Cookies don't pay insurance,” he whispered, “but these might.”
I elbowed him gently.
Mara laughed.
And I felt that same strange familiarity again.
Not enough to identify.
Just enough to make me wonder.
We sat outside the garage on an old wooden bench while the morning traffic moved along Ridgeway Avenue.
The sky was clear.
The October air was cold but pleasant in the sunlight.
Mara wrapped both hands around her coffee.
For several minutes, we talked about ordinary things.
The traffic downtown.
Chicago weather.
The bakery.
Her meeting on Tuesday.
She worked for a marketing company in the Loop, helping businesses with branding and major campaign projects.
She had lived in Chicago for three years.
Before that, she spent time in Indianapolis and several smaller cities.
She described herself as someone who moved too often and kept too many books.
I told her about the garage.
My grandfather.
Marcus.
The Mustang restoration.
And the way my daughter believed I could repair everything with a screwdriver and enough patience.
Mara smiled.
“You have a daughter?”
I nodded.
“Eight.”
“What's her name?”
“Lily.”
Her expression softened.
“Beautiful name.”
“Beautiful kid.”
She laughed.
“Proud father?”
“Unbearably.”
Mara smiled.
Then looked toward the garage.
“Her mother?”
The question was gentle.
Not intrusive.
But I still felt that familiar ache.
“She died three years ago.”
Mara's smile faded.
“Oh, Caleb.”
I looked toward my coffee.
“Yeah.”
She was silent.