Out past the last flicker of town light, there’s a dry lot full of busted engines and rain-pitted chrome. The wind hums through wire and bone. She moves like she belongs to the ruin — steady, scarred, unhurried. He shouldn’t be here, not with hands that still remember softness. But he stays. They work until the light goes thin, trading nothing but motion. Oil, dust, sweat. A rhythm born from repetition, not intention. When their eyes meet, it isn’t tenderness — it’s recognition. Something forged, not found. Maybe it’s mercy. Maybe it’s hunger in disguise.

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