Page 61 of Broken Pieces
The sight makes me breathe better—it’s work, it’s purpose, it’s the kind of place a man can bury himself and not be dragged out.
When the door shuts behind me with a thud, he looks up. Torch clicks off, goggles shoved to his forehead.
He studies me in the kind of silence that makes your skin itch. His eyes sweep slowly, from my face to the crumpled shirt, the backpack strap, down to the laundry bag at my side.
“Shit, kid.” His voice carries across the space, rough as gravel. He sets the tool down, wipes his hands across a grease-stained rag. “You sleep in a gutter?”
“Close enough.” My voice comes out raw, throat scraped from the night. “Bench by the bus stop.”
Rainer studies me for a beat longer, then jerks his chin toward the back wall.
“There's a room upstairs if you want it.”
I nod once. “Thanks, that would be great.”
He doesn’t ask anything.
No why, no how, no if I’ve thought this through. He heads for the small office at the side of the shop. The air in there is different, a mix of coffee gone bitter and old paper. Hooks line the wall above the desk, keys dangling from them like scraps of freedom waiting to be claimed.
He reaches up, grabs one and tosses it across the space.
I catch it one-handed. The metal hits my palm, edges biting into my skin. It isn’t just a key. It’s a lifeline.
“Upstairs, back corner.” His voice is flat, all business. “Mattress isn’t much, but it’s clean. Shower’s through the steel door. Fridge works, but I’m not sure for how long.”
The words land like a checklist, but they feel like more than that. A door cracked open. A place to stand.
“Thanks.” The word comes out thin, not nearly enough for what he just handed me.
I pause too long.
Rainer tilts his head, eyes narrowing the way they do when he’s measuring up a piece of metal. “What’s on your mind, kid?”
I swallow, forcing the words out. “Can I start early?”
His brow lifts. “How early are we talking?”
“Now.”
“Unload your shit. Get cleaned up. Then come back down.” He turns toward his bench, voice flat but solid. “Got some parts that need sorting. Could use your eye on it.”
I grip the key tighter, metal digging into my palm, and head for the narrow stairs at the back of the workshop.
My boots echo against the steel with every step as I climb, the sound too loud in the quiet above.
The room is bigger than I expected.
One window set high in the wall, glass smeared with dust but still letting in enough light.
A single bed shoved against the far corner, mattress thin but flat. A crooked chair sits hunched in the opposite corner.
On the sill, a chipped mug, left behind by someone who probably walked out and never looked back.
That’s it.
Empty space and bare walls. But it’s mine.
For the first time, the room is mine.
