As she opened the door to the dilapidated garage, next to a railroad track, she gasped seeing the huge pile of worn tyres left inside.
Climbing over them, armed with a torch, her eyes searching the tyres, eager to see it. The light fell through them until it hit a piece of murky metal. Her pulse increased. She climbed closer, more metal, Bordeaux-coloured. When she saw the registration, she knew. Her hand stretched through the tyres and touched her parents Studebaker. Again.