Page 74 of Veil of Blood

Coffee in one hand, thermos in the other. I pour until the dark liquid hits the brim, then twist the cap down tight. The pot’s still warm on the bench. I leave it there, a reminder that something good can come from heat and pressure.

A cigarette waits in my jacket pocket. I clip it between my lips, slide a match across the striker, and light it. The match splinters in my fingers. I tap the ember against the concrete step and inhale. Smoke curls around my throat. A small comfort.

The radio kicks in next: a scratchy guitar riff, a voice singing about heartbreak and barroom lies. It’s classic rock—her station choice. When she was here, I let it play all day. Now it fills the empty space, and I let that be enough.

My first thought drifts to her name. Not like a question. Like a footprint left in mud. Chiara. I don’t say it. I just let the sound of it settle.

I set the thermos on the bench and step toward her tool drawer. It’s the third one down, still labeled in her neat block letters:

“Clara’s Tools”

I haven’t changed a damn thing. The Allen keys are lined up by size. The sockets sit in molded plastic trays. Everything’s in its place as if she’ll push through the door at any second, ask for the 10-millimeter wrench, and be on her way.

I slide the drawer open. The faint click reminds me of nights she spent here after I’d fallen asleep on a tire stack. She’d keep working until dawn painted the sky. I’d wake to find new notes scrawled on sticky pads: torque values, part numbers, deadlines. All in her clear script.

Her notes are gone, but the tape she used to stick them is still looped on a metal hook beside the drawer. I leave it there, coil of pale paper against chipped paint.

Atop the bench sits a busted transmission—my project since yesterday. I pull it closer. It’s caked in grime, gears locked stiff from neglect. I grip my torque wrench and grind the first bolt loose, listening to metal protest. Grease coats my fingers as I peel away plate covers, expose planetary gears and shims.

The work is honest. It doesn’t ask questions about why she left. It doesn’t remind me that two days have passed without a word.

A small, frayed leather loop catches my eye beneath the transmission housing. I lift it. A keychain, chipped at theedges, Luca’s bullet-casing charm dangling from it. I must have dropped it when I cleared the garage after she left.

I turn it over in my hand. The metal’s cool. I trace the indented lettering: the caliber stamped by her own hands. It reminds me of Luca—reminds me of every scar she earned and every vow she made along the way.

I don’t squeeze it. I don’t cry. I just breathe.

I clip the keychain to a nail above the bench, beside the bent alternator bracket she tossed in frustration last month. It belongs there with the scars we share.

“Safe,” I say, voice low against the hum of overhead lights. “That’s what matters.”

The shaker of my torque wrench rings out as I tighten a bearing housing. Each turn clicks the dial one notch. The hiss of escaping air from the pneumatic lines mixes with the radio’s chorus.

A knock stops me mid-turn. Metal on concrete, twice, urgent but not frantic.

I step back. Wipe grease on my jeans. The side door stands ajar. I move to it, wary but prepared. Through the gap, I see a man in a worn denim jacket, hat pulled low, hands stuffed in pockets.

“You open?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, voice even.

He steps inside, eyes darting around like he expects ghosts. The morning light hasn’t reached this corner yet, but he squints anyway.

“I got a Camry,” he says. “Back brakes gone. Rod’s busted too.”

I nod. “Leave it.”

He shifts his weight. “You the only one here?”

“Always was.”

He studies me like that could be bad news. Then he nods, pulls a single key from his pocket, taps the hood of his beat-up Corolla parked outside, and walks back into the alley without another word.

I watch him go. The door clicks shut behind him.

I return to the transmission. Place the housing cover back on. Tighten each bolt finger-tight before dialing to spec. Check the gear cluster aligns. The steel rings mesh like teeth.

I reach for an open rag and wipe oil off my knuckles. The radio sputters into static. I glance at the tuner: the station’s gone. I leave it there, letting the crackle fill the void.

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