Dio
The engine clicked as it cooled, a metallic staccato in the tomb-like silence of the garage.
I didn't move. My back remained pressed against the hand-stitched leather of the driver’s seat, my fingers still curled tight around the steering wheel.
The motion-sensor lights in the corner dimmed, casting long, skeletal shadows across the hood of the car.
Inside the cabin, the air felt heavy. It wasn't just the lack of circulation. It was the ghost of something left behind.
Vanilla.
The scent was faint, a whisper of sweetness fighting against the sharp, sterile smell of the car’s interior. It was mixed with the scent of cheap laundry detergent—the kind that smelled like artificial sunshine and hard work.
It was Elara.
The scent clung to the passenger seat like a silent ghost, weavin
