At twenty-nine years old, the world doesn’t usually feel like a place of deep, interconnected mysteries. It feels like a series of logistical hurdles. I was living in a state of constant, low-level panic because my car had finally given up the ghost, leaving me stranded in a precarious financial situation. I didn’t need a legacy or a story; I just needed a way to get to my shift on time without spending half my paycheck on ride-shares. That was the headspace I was in when I scrolled past a listing for a ninety-eight dollar Harley-Davidson.
The price was absurd. Even a rusted frame stripped of its engine usually goes for more than that. I assumed it was a scam or a typo, but desperation has a way of making you believe in miracles. I contacted the seller and found myself at a weathered, nameless repair shop on the outskirts of town. The air inside smelled of old grease, cold iron, and tobacco. The man behind the counter was as worn down as the machines he surrounded himself with, his eyes clouded with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.
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