The first thaw of late winter arrived quietly in mid-March, carrying the faint, earthy scent of melting ice and damp pavement through the open bay doors of Henderson’s Auto Repair.
I sat at a makeshift desk in the corner of the garage's main office—a sunlit nook squeezed between a towering stack of tire invoices and a faded metal filing cabinet. Outside the window, 4th Street was buzzing with afternoon traffic, the harsh winter gray finally giving way to a pale, brilliant blue sky.
A quiet tap on the glass doorframe made me look up from my laptop.
Julian was leaning against the frame, holding two paper cups of coffee from the diner down the block. He was wearing a dark grey t-shirt smudged with black grease across the ribs, his dark curls slightly messy, and his leather jacket slung cas
