Chapter 28 – Sylvara
The paintbrush feels heavier than it should.
I dip it again in the tray, wiping the excess against the rim, then drag it across the wood in a smooth arc. Pale gold on slate blue. The bristles whisper across the surface. The letters come together slowly—slower than I expected. Not because I’m uncertain. But because this part, this piece of it, I don’t want to rush.
Second Chances Garage.
I pause after the final stroke. The sun is strong enough to dry it before I set the brush down. The wood will need sealing later, and maybe sanding around the edges, but the lines are clean. The name stands proud on the front wall above the roll-up bay door. Simple serif lettering. No flare. Just truth.
We picked it together—me and the man currently cursing under the hood of a blue ‘68 Mustang.
“You stubborn son of a—” Kieran mutters from across the lot. “That’s not even connected to your battery line, what are you doing?”
The hood rattles as he shifts. A wrench clinks against the concrete. He growls, but there’s no venom in it.
The Mustang’s a local’s car. Belongs to the retired librarian who lives two blocks over. She doesn’t drive it anymore, just likes to hear it run once a week. She calls it her “gentleman companion.” Kieran calls it a demon in chrome.
His arms are streaked with grease to the elbow. His shirt is damp around the collar, unbuttoned enough to show the new scar above his ribs. The one that didn’t quite heal straight.
It’s been two months since the bunker.
Two months since we stopped running.
Two months since we chose names that didn’t echo. That didn’t carry blood in the vowels.
Inside the office, the fan ticks lazily in the corner. I prop the front door open with a cinderblock and wipe my hands on a rag, fingers stiff from holding the brush too tight.
The license in the window reads:
Owner/Operators: Ana Ramirez the other half is mine. A leather-bound sketchbook, a coil machine still in its foam cradle, and a clean, unused ink cup tray.
I haven’t tattooed anyone yet. But the first appointment’s tomorrow.
Guy named Mitch. Wants a compass inked just below his collarbone. Says he spent twenty years trying to find himself. Smiles like he still hasn’t.
I think about asking Kieran to let me tattoo him first. Something small. Just for us. I haven’t said it aloud yet. But the thought’s planted. Deep.
By the time I walk back outside, Kieran has his head tilted back toward the sky, a rag over one shoulder, engine off.
The Mustang sits quiet. Smug.
“She’s purring now,” he says, stretching his back. “But she makes me fight for it every damn time.”
I grin. “You always did like a challenge.”
He looks at me then.
Really looks.
And smiles.
Just once.
But it’s real. And it doesn’t look foreign anymore.
We don’t talk much during the workday. Not because there’s nothing to say. But because the quiet between us doesn’t need filling.
He knows how I take my coffee now. I know which wrench he always leaves on the side of the tool chest even though he pretends to put it away.
He locks up the bay doors when I forget. I keep the ledger in order when his handwriting falls apart halfway through a phone call.
It works.
Simple.
Clean.
Real.
I didn’t expect peace to feel this still.
But it’s not empty.
It’s enough.
The girl can’t be more than fifteen.
She stands outside the shop for a while, pretending to fiddle with the chain on her bike, but her eyes keep bouncing between the sign over the garage door and the open front office. She’s wearing a hoodie with the sleeves cut off and her hair buzzed short on one side. A faded red backpack hangs crooked off her shoulders.
When she finally steps inside, her voice is steadier than her hands.
“You guys fix bikes?”
Kieran doesn’t look up right away. He’s elbow-deep in the Mustang’s engine again, fingers wrapped around a socket wrench. He glances toward the girl over his shoulder.
“Depends what’s wrong with it,” he says.
She nudges the bike forward. “Chain popped off. I tried to get it back on, but it’s jammed.”
“Easy fix,” he mutters, grabbing a rag and walking over.
She follows him to the edge of the garage, still clutching the handlebars.
I step around the reception desk and nod toward the little fridge behind the counter.
“Want some water?” I ask.
She hesitates, then shrugs. “Sure.”
I hand her a bottle and watch as she cracks the seal and takes two fast gulps. Her eyes flick around the shop. She doesn’t look afraid—just hungry for something she hasn’t quite named yet.
Her gaze stops on my sketchbook, still open on the desk beside the coil machine.
“You draw all those?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
She sets the bottle down carefully and moves closer, peering at the designs.
One page shows a phoenix coiled around a dagger. The wings are flame-thin, trailing down into smoke. The blade is buried in the creature’s chest, but the bird still rises.
She reaches out and touches the edge of the page with one finger.
“That’s cool,” she says. “My mom wouldn’t let me get one. Says tattoos are trashy. But I think they mean something.”
“They always do,” I reply.
She looks up at me like she’s checking whether I believe it.
I do.
Kieran finishes resetting the chain, wipes his hands on a rag, and gives the back tire a spin.
“Good to go,” he says. “Might want to oil the crank. It’s dry.”
She nods and pulls the bike toward the door.
“Thanks,” she says, still looking at the sketchbook. “You guys from around here?” she asks.
“Not really,” I say. “But we’re staying.”
Her smile is small, but it’s real. “Good. Town’s boring. Could use more weird people.”
She pedals off without waiting for a reply, the back tire wobbling once before it catches its rhythm. She rides into the sun like she owns the street.
I step into the doorway and lean against the frame.
The dust rises behind her, soft and gold, catching on the breeze like powder blown from old bones.
I stand there until it fades.
Until there’s nothing but the warm hum of life again. A hammer in the distance. A truck engine rumbling past the grocery store. The sky yawning wide and cloudless.
Then I turn back inside.
The door shuts with a soft click.
I slide the bolt into place and rest my palm against the new sign beside the window.
Second Chances.
The letters are dry now. Crisp. Clean.
It doesn’t buzz with adrenaline. Doesn’t feel like a heist pulled off or a life narrowly saved. It feels like a kept promise.
One I made to myself.
To be here.
To stay.
Kieran’s crouched near the rolling tool chest, sorting sockets by size. His brow is furrowed, but there’s a line of peace in his shoulders now. Something I never saw back in Vegas. Something I never thought I’d want to learn to trust.
He looks up and catches me watching.
Winks.
Just once.
But it’s enough.
I lean back against the doorframe, arms crossed, the taste of dust and sage still on my tongue.
“I saw myself in her,” I think. “Not the blood. Not the scars. The beginning.”
This life isn’t loud.
There’s no gunfire in the walls, no ghost behind every window.
But it isn’t soft, either.
It’s quiet.
Built from what’s left.
And somehow, that’s stronger than everything we burned to get here.