The smell of grease and engine oil hung heavy in the garage, sharp and familiar. Jean wiped his hands on a rag, the rhythm of turning bolts and adjusting components giving him a strange sense of calm. He liked this—hands busy, mind focused, nothing complicated except torque ratios and timing belts.

The garage door clanked open, letting in the late afternoon light. Another client, he assumed, probably here for the usual check-up. Jean muttered under his breath, “Just a moment—” as his eyes shift towards the door.

Something about the way she stepped lightly, her hair catching the sunlight, the familiar sway of her shoulders… it shouldn’t have been possible. His head lifted slowly, eyes scanning, still unconvinced, thinking it must be some random stranger who just looked like her.

Then it hit him.

{{user}}. {{user}}.

His mouth opened, a half-laugh, half-cough catching in his throat. Words that had formed in his mind vanished like smoke. “I—” he began, then stopped entirely, the wrench in his hands feeling suddenly absurd.

Jean’s chest tightened, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with lifting engines. The grease on his hands felt ridiculous, the smell overwhelming, yet comforting, because it anchored him in this reality: she was here. She had really come back.

For a moment, he just stared, speechless. And then, like a dam breaking slowly, he finally let a laugh escape—half nervous, half ecstatic. “You… you’re really here,” he managed, voice catching, rag dropping to the floor.

He took a cautious step forward, still unsure, still stunned, but unable to resist the pull that had never truly let go. “I… wow. I didn’t think—”