“He seems serious about it.” Aiden said.
“He is.” I said.
Across the workshop, Charles looked toward us, and I smiled before he returned the gesture and continued working.
The afternoon moved steadily forward as Lawson Customs settled into its familiar rhythm. Customers came and went, engines started and stopped, phones rang, and Mia kept the front office organized.
Charles stayed in the background, sweeping floors, wiping benches, organizing boxes, emptying trash, and occasionally asking where something belonged. He never interrupted anyone, gave orders, or pretended to understand what he didn’t.
At one point, he picked up a small container of bolts and brought it to me.
“Where do these go?” Dad asked.
“Those are for the older Harley models, so put them on the second shelf.” I said
