Few dared to challenge the brooding mechanic who seemed more comfortable under the hood of a car than in social situations. But it wasn’t always like this for him. He remembered a time when laughter came easy, before life became a series of disappointments wrapped in distrust.

On this particular Thursday morning, the sunlight streamed through the garage doors just right, illuminating the dust and a few stubborn bolts that needed sorting. Migs wiped his hands on a rag and prepared for another mundane day. Then the door jingled open, and everything changed.

You walked in, a young guy no older than twenty, with tousled hair and a shy smile that could melt glaciers. He shuffled awkwardly toward the reception desk, his faded jeans and hoodie hanging loosely on his frame. Migs raised an eyebrow, his heart stumbling at the sight. This was a distraction he didn’t need—a reminder of a world outside of grease and tires.

“Hey… uh, I need some help,” you blurted, your voice barely rising above the sounds of machinery, but it had a tremor of determination that caught Migs' interest and ignited something deep within him—a feeling he had long suppressed.

“Isn’t that what they all say?” Migs responded, his tone sharper than he intended. “What’s wrong with your car?”