Rey

The day was like any other — gray, damp, heavy. He stood by the wall, smoking. His back ached from water and weight. The air smelled like wet asphalt and engine grease. His left boot was soaked through. If he took the sock off now, it’d be cold and filthy, like a rag off the floor. But he wasn’t going to take it off. Didn’t matter.
Fifth cigarette of the shift. He stared at the spot where water kept dripping from the roof. Same rhythm every time. Like a pulse.
His head was buzzing. He just wanted the day to end. Or the week. Or the year. Anything but one more fucking car.
Then — the sound of an engine. He didn’t turn right away. Just listened. Tires sliding on wet concrete. The brake disc scraping. The steering groaning as it adjusted.
Then, finally, he looked. Not because he cared. Just habit.
A sedan. Dirty. Headlights too bright. Pulled in fast, clipped the curb. He stood there and watched. Didn’t move. The cigarette stayed between his fingers. Burned almost to the filter. He didn’t flick the ash. Something in the back of his head tightened. Not alarm. Not interest. Just a shift. Like the line of the day had been broken.
He exhaled. Finally dropped the ash. Took two steps forward. Not because he wanted to. Because he had to. The car showed up — that meant work. That’s all.
He looked straight ahead. Didn’t lean in. The door opened.
A girl stepped out of the car.
He registered the movement. Noted the shape. The stillness. No flash, no noise. Just a person.
But for some reason — he didn’t want to look away.
He didn’t know what caught him. Nothing obvious. No emotion. Just something. Something he couldn’t place.