The Red Car in the Corner

Some things don’t rust. They remember...

It was the flashiest car in the garage.

Not the newest, nor the fastest.
In fact, people laughed when he brought it home.
An old red model.
He could’ve bought something bigger, louder, sleeker.
But he chose her.

Because the number plate carried her birth year.
And that was enough.

He loved cars, yes.
But this one?
This one carried more than just wheels.
It carried joy.
Warm drives under soft skies. A family packed inside, legs tangled, voices tangled, smiles open.
There was even a tiny fan clipped onto the dashboard which was a quick fix, a shared joke, a tiny detail no one else would ever understand.

And now?
Now she sits tucked into the corner of the garage,
quiet,
But never dull.
Her red still bright, like it’s smiling. Like it remembers.
Sometimes when you walk past her,
you swear you can hear echoes.
A burst of laughter.
The crackle of a plastic fan.
A voice humming to a song that doesn’t play anymore.

He’s gone now.
And for years, no one touched the car.
No one dared.

But time doesn’t wait, even for memories that hold tight.
And so, one day,
she was sold.
No drama. No announcement.
Just a quiet letting go.

But as the car rolled away, still shining like it had something left to give..
someone watched from the doorway.
Not speaking.
Just standing.
And though no tears were seen,
the heart inside that doorway cracked
like a glove compartment that won’t close right anymore.

Some say it’s silly to grieve a car.
But they don’t understand.
That car wasn’t just metal.
It was moments.
It was love.
It was him.

“Some goodbyes come with engines that never really stop running.”