Tank stayed beside me in the garage for almost an hour while the rain hammered against the roof overhead.

Each time, the words hit differently.

Not because of the money.

Not because of the Charger.

Because for the first time since the funeral, I could hear my father’s voice clearly again — steady, practical, honest.

Outside, the estate sale carried on like nothing had changed.

People laughed.

Truck doors slammed.

Someone argued over the price of an old fishing rod.