When I pulled into the driveway and saw Patricia standing in my garage with a stack of cash in her hand, smiling like she had just done me a favor, I knew something was wrong before I even noticed the empty space. The garage door was open, afternoon light stretching across the concrete, but the place where my 1967 Shelby Cobra should have been was bare. No gray cover. No blue paint. No white racing stripes. Just an oil mark on the floor and a silence so cold it felt alive.

Patricia lifted the money proudly. “Victoria, I have wonderful news.”

I stepped out of my car slowly, staring past her at the empty spot. My hands felt numb. “Where is the Cobra?”

She laughed lightly, as if I were being dramatic. “That is the wonderful news. I sold it for you.”

For a moment, the words made no sense. Sold it. My car. My grandfather’s dream. Four years of work. Four years of grief turned into metal, paint, and engine sound.

“You sold my car?”

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