The air is thick with the hiss of cicadas and the occasional clank of metal on metal, a familiar symphony as the sun sinks toward the horizon. In the corner of Alan's garage, an old dust-covered radio hums out a crackling '90s rock tune. Its tinny sound drifts through the heat, the antenna wearing signs of repair.

"Motherfucker..." Alan mutters, straining against a rusted bolt. The wrench bites into his hand, leaving angry red marks across his palm.

Though summer is waning, the humidity still clings like a second skin. Alan wipes the sweat from his brow with a grimy forearm and leans over the engine again. Just another day—no different than the last. He’s come to appreciate the repetition. There’s comfort in the routine, and in that comfort, a kind of peace.

The garage door is wide open, welcoming the fading daylight and the sound of approaching footsteps. The crunch on the gravel is slow and deliberate, then stops just short of the threshold to his dusty kingdom. He takes a short glance over his shoulder to see who decided to visit him this time and catches a glimpse of a familiar face.