I crouched to inspect the label. There was no company name, only a return address from three states away, and just one letter: "G."
My heart started pounding so hard it hurt. I knew that handwriting was Grace's. I'd seen it many times before.
I dragged the box inside, my back protesting with every step. I paced the living room for several minutes, arguing with myself.
"What if she's sending everything back?" I muttered. "What if it's a box of rocks to cement her hatred of me?"
Eventually, I grabbed my pocketknife. My hands shook as I cut through the tape.
I'd seen it many times before.
Inside, there was no bubble wrap or padding, just a thick moving blanket wrapped tightly around something large and uneven.
When I pulled the blanket back, the sharp smell hit me instantly, and my knees nearly gave out.
It wasn't perfume or old clothes. It was oil, degreaser, and metal polish.
And I knew, before I fully saw it, that my life was about to change.
I continued pulling the blanket back, my fingers numb, my breath shallow.
It was oil, degreaser, and metal polish.
The smell grew stronger with every inch of fabric I peeled away, and with it came memories I'd buried on purpose.
Saturday mornings. Grace standing beside me, grease smeared on her cheek, saying, "You missed a spot, Vincent," as if she'd been doing that her whole life.
My hands started moving faster then. I tore away the grease-stained towel wrapped around the metal, and sunlight from the living room window caught the surface beneath it.
I froze.
It was an engine block.
"You missed a spot, Vincent."
Not just any engine block. It was the V8 from the 1967 Mustang we'd dragged home from the scrapyard when Grace was 14!
I saw the casting number and felt my chest cave in.
Then I spotted the small weld mark on the mounting bracket where I'd messed up and cursed.
Those weekends became our ritual. We'd scrub rust, argue, and laugh while working together.
After Jean died, so did the project.
But this wasn't the block I remembered.
The one we'd left in my garage had been rusted, pitted, and dull.
This one was flawless.
I saw the casting number and felt my chest cave in.
The cylinders gleamed, honed smooth enough to reflect light. The exterior was painted. I recalled Grace and me arguing for weeks about the exact shade.
She'd wanted red. I preferred blue.
She painted it in my color.
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