I was under the front bumper checking the radiator mounts, and Wyatt was leaning over the passenger side fender, feeling around the back of the engine bay. Suddenly, the garage went dead quiet. The metallic clatter of Wyatt’s ratchet hitting the concrete floor made me jump.

I rolled out from under the bumper on the creeper and stood up. Wyatt was frozen, his hand still wedged up near the firewall, right under the cowl hood. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock. “Wyatt? You okay, son? Did you cut yourself?” I asked, wiping grease from my hands.

“Grandpa,” he whispered, his voice trembling uncontrollably. “There’s something taped under here.” My heart gave a violent lurch. I hurried over to his side of the car and peered into the dark recess he was pointing at. Way up high, tucked behind the heavy metal lip of the cowl—a place you would never see unless you were physically feeling around blindly—was a square shape.

It was heavily wrapped in black electrical tape, blending in perfectly with the dark metal of the firewall. My hands shook as I reached up. The tape was old, the adhesive degraded and gummy. I carefully peeled it back, freeing the object. As I pulled it out into the light, my chest tightened.

It was a thick manila envelope. It had gone soft and slightly warped from the years of humidity and temperature changes in the garage. It was covered in a fine layer of black dust. I wiped it off with my shop rag, and as the grime smeared away, black ink was revealed.

My knees actually buckled. I had to grab the fender to keep from collapsing. Written across the front, in bold, unmistakable black marker, was my son’s handwriting. It was messy, hurried, but entirely his.

It read: For Dad and Wyatt. If I don’t get to hear her run.

Wyatt was standing next to me, reading the words over my shoulder. I heard him let out a ragged gasp. Tears were already spilling down my wrinkled cheeks, cutting tracks through the engine grease. David didn’t know he was going to die—the aneurysm was sudden, unpredictable.

But he had always been a deeply practical man, and restoring a classic car takes years. He must have hidden this here as a time capsule, a “just in case” message, back when Wyatt was just a little boy playing with toy cars on this very garage floor.

With shaking fingers, I pried the soft flap of the envelope open. Inside was a folded piece of heavy yellow legal paper, and a smaller, sealed white envelope. I unfolded the yellow paper first. The ink was slightly faded, but the message was clear. Dad, the letter began.

If you’re reading this, it means either we finally finished the beast and we’re celebrating, or something happened and I couldn’t finish the job. If it’s the latter, I need you to do me one last favor. Don’t let her rot.