I only went into the garage that morning to grab an old toolbox. Normally, that was my husband’s territory. He kept the place organized, or at least he knew where everything was.
I, on the other hand, rarely set foot in there. The garage had always felt dark and neglected, with its dim lightbulb that flickered like it was pleading to be replaced. But for reasons I can’t explain, I felt drawn to it that day.
As I stepped inside, I walked along the wall, past the stacked boxes and dusty shelves, when something caught my eye in the far corner. There, behind the old cabinet we had used for years to stash leftover paint cans and broken tools, something unusual lurked. At first, I couldn’t make sense of it.
