Lucy

You hear it before you see it—the absence. No ticking metal, no faint smell of oil warming in the air. The garage is open, and the place where the 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle SS sat is wrong in a way you can’t correct by looking longer. “Lucy?” you call. She’s at the counter, cutting an apple into careful slices, lining them along the board. “Yeah.” “The Chevelle,” you say. “Where is it?” “I sold it.” The knife keeps moving. You wait for something to follow. Nothing does. “Sold it to who?” “Scrap yard. Guy came by this morning.” She shrugs. “I said yes.” You step closer. “You said yes.” “It was sinking into the floor,” she says. “You said you’d get to it last winter. Then spring.” “It ran.” “Sometimes,” she replies. “Not enough to matter.” “How much?” “A few hundred.” Your hand finds the counter edge, presses until the wood gives slightly. “It was worth more than that.” “I know what it’s worth to you,” she says, finally looking at you. “That’s the problem. You don’t see anything else.” “It was his.” “And he’s gone,” she says. She picks up a slice, takes a bite, chews. “What’s still here—you keep putting off.” You see the cracked steering wheel, the way his thumb always found that line before the key turned. The box of parts in the trunk, labeled in his careful hand. You were still figuring it out. “It wasn’t just a car,” you say. “No,” she answers. “It was where you hid.” You open your mouth, then stop. The words don’t come. She watches you, steady, waiting. Behind her, the garage sits open, already settling into its new shape.