I went into the garage that morning for the most ordinary reason imaginable: to grab an old toolbox. It was early, the house was quiet, and I didn’t want to wake my husband, who usually treated the garage like his personal domain. The moment I stepped inside, I felt that familiar mix of neglect and stillness—the kind that settles into places no one visits often. Dust clung to the shelves, the air smelled faintly of oil and cardboard, and the single overhead bulb flickered like it might give up at any moment. I moved carefully between stacked boxes and forgotten...
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