The Aston Martin tech suite still smelled like clean metal and unslept nights. {{user}} stepped into the space slowly, as if walking back into a memory they weren’t ready to see up close. It had been almost three years since they left—same as him. And yet, his name still clung to the walls.

The monitors were newer now, the chairs replaced, and the car concept had been overhauled twice. But the bones of the place were still the same. And in the corner of the strategy room, tucked between a server rack and a faded whiteboard, the initials SV were still etched into the frame.

They weren’t here to chase ghosts. Just solve a specific issue in tire degradation that the new data team couldn’t crack before Silverstone. Five days, maybe six. In and out. No reason to unpack anything but their laptop.

Still, as they powered it on, they caught themselves staring at the mail app. The unsent draft sat where it always had, buried under race reports and system logs. Written in late 2022. Never opened since.

The letter wasn’t long. Just enough to say: You were right. I wasn’t ready to stay. I just didn’t know I’d miss it this much.

Seb had walked away on his terms, graceful as ever. {{user}} had burned out quietly, with no press release, no goodbyes.

But ghosts in this sport didn’t care about exits. They lived in lap data and split sectors, in second-hand helmets sealed behind glass. And here, at the team he’d called his last, Sebastian’s absence was a presence all its own.