Victor nodded. "My father knew how good he was. I wish I'd paid more attention then. But I'm glad we can remember him properly now."
Noah took the photograph and held it with both hands. He remembered Marcus teaching him to listen, but until now he had imagined the lessons as private things belonging only to their kitchen and the salvage yard. The picture showed his father among other mechanics, respected and laughing, part of a wider world of skill and friendship. Noah did not have words for how much that mattered.
He looked at Victor, then at Greg, then back at the photograph. "Can we put a copy beside the car?" he asked. Victor answered, "With your mother's permission, I'd like that very much."
After the gathering, Victor walked alone to the main garage bay. The Ferrari waited there beneath soft lights, its body as beautiful as ever. It no longer felt like an accusation from his father, or a test of whether enough money could force an unwilling machine to obey. It felt like a story still being written, one in which the people around the car mattered more than the price collectors assigned to it. He touched the roof gently and remembered Edward telling him that a machine was only worth understanding if you were willing to listen.
Angela joined him a moment later. "Noah wants to know if he can come back next Saturday," she said. Victor smiled. "Is he building something?" "A model transmission.
It keeps sticking. He says that's the interesting part." Victor laughed. The phrase might have come directly from Marcus, and he could imagine Edward agreeing enthusiastically.
"Tell him we'll make room," Victor said. "As long as he finishes his homework." Angela nodded. "I'm glad you've learned that rule."
They stood for a moment without speaking. Outside, a gardener rolled a cart along the path, and the ordinary sounds of work drifted through the open side door. Angela looked at the Ferrari and then at Victor. "I used to think places like this weren't meant for people like us," she admitted. "I'd bring Noah to work only when I had no other choice.
I spent half that first day waiting for somebody to tell us to leave." Victor looked at her with regret. "You had every reason to feel that way," he said. "I hope the place feels different now."
"It does," Angela answered. "Not because Noah was right about the engine. Because you eventually listened to what we needed after the engine was fixed." Victor accepted the distinction.
It separated a moment of astonishment from the quieter responsibility that followed it. He knew he would still make mistakes, still rush, still occasionally mistake his own convenience for efficiency. But now there were people around him who could tell him so, and he had begun to value that possibility rather than resent it.