He seemed to understand that silence wasn’t always something that needed to be filled.
By the time I thanked everyone for dinner and headed back toward Lawson Customs, the sun had already set and the short drive back into town gave me far too much time to think.
The clubhouse had begun feeling less like somewhere I visited and more like somewhere I belonged. And that was dangerous. Not because the people there had done anything wrong but because belonging meant caring. Caring meant having something to lose.
I parked behind the garage and unlocked the side door before carrying my travel mug inside.
The workshop greeted me with its familiar scent of oil, steel and rubber and the quiet immediately settled my thoughts. This place had always been my refuge.
I walked toward Uncle Will’s
