Part 5: The Collision
I locked the shop door behind us. I strapped Mia into the passenger seat of my old Volvo, my hands shaking so violently I could barely turn the ignition key.
Mia directed me through the slick, rain-soaked streets of Oakhaven, leading me to a grim, industrial sector on the edge of the city limits. We pulled into the gravel lot of Miller’s Auto & Tire.
“He’s in there,” Mia pointed, her small hand pressed against the window.
I threw the car into park and leaped out into the rain, clutching the tarnished pocket watch tightly in my fist.
I practically kicked the door of the garage open.
The air inside smelled heavily of motor oil, exhaust, and wet concrete. A young man was standing beneath a raised sedan, wiping thick, black grease from his hands with a red shop rag.
He wore a dark blue mechanic’s uniform. His dark hair was messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.
He turned around when the door slammed against the wall.
When I saw his face, the earth stopped spinning.
He didn’t look like my ex-husband. He looked exactly like my father. He had the same strong jaw, the same deep-set, intelligent eyes. He had the exact same birthmark—a small, crescent-shaped shadow just beneath his left ear.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” Jack asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at the hysterical, weeping older woman standing in his garage. Then, he saw the little girl standing behind me. “Mia? What are you doing here? Where’s Mrs. Gable?”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Mia whimpered, stepping out from behind my legs. “I took your watch. I just wanted to fix the sleeping music.”
Jack’s eyes darted to my clenched fist. He saw the brass chain dangling between my fingers.
“Ma’am, I apologize,” Jack said, his voice tense but incredibly polite, stepping forward. “She shouldn’t have taken that. It’s a family heirloom. It belonged to my late mother. I’ll pay you for your time.”
“She wasn’t your mother,” I blurted out, the words tearing out of me before I could stop them.
Jack froze. His eyes narrowed, a flash of protective anger crossing his face. “Excuse me?”
I took a slow, agonizing step forward, holding the pocket watch out in my trembling palm.
“You didn’t break this watch, Jack,” I wept, the tears flowing freely, unashamedly down my face. “I built this watch. I milled the gears. I engraved the casing. And I wrote the lullaby on the music cylinder inside.”
Jack stared at me as if I were completely insane. “What are you talking about? My mother gave me that.”
“Your mother stole you,” I sobbed, my voice echoing off the concrete walls of the garage. “You were eight months old. You were in a stroller at the Winter Market. I turned around to buy an ornament, and you were gone. I have spent twenty-five years looking for you.”
Jack stepped back, physically staggering as if I had struck him. He looked at the watch, then back at my face.
“You’re crazy,” Jack whispered, his voice cracking, panic bleeding into his tone. “My name is Jack Holden. Brenda Holden is my mother.”
“Open the back of the watch,” I pleaded, holding it out to him. “Press the latch on the hinge. Look at the engraving on the mainspring.”
Jack hesitated. His hands, stained with oil and grease, reached out and took the brass timepiece. His fingers moved clumsily over the metal. He found the hidden latch. The back casing popped open.
He held it up to the harsh fluorescent lights of the garage.
He read the inscription.
For my Leo. Time will never steal my love for you.
Jack’s breath hitched. He looked up at me. He looked at the shape of my eyes. He looked at the structure of my jaw. The biological mirror staring back at him was undeniable, absolute, and terrifying.
“My name is Clara Whitmore,” I whispered, taking a step closer, my arms aching to hold him. “And you are my son.”
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