The whole ordeal began innocently enough. My dad had finally decided to tackle his ancient detached garage, a structure he hadn’t touched in any meaningful way since I was in middle school, sometime around the early 2000s. It wasn’t just cluttered; it was a mausoleum of forgotten domestic projects and expired technologies. He had enlisted me and my closest friend, Liam, to handle the job—a seemingly straightforward task of turning decades of dusty chaos into organized sanity. The place smelled faintly of stale motor oil, damp cardboard, and the metallic tang of forgotten ambition. It was packed wall-to-wall with relics:...
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