“That works.”
“Excellent. I’ll draw up a contract and email it to you. You sign it and send it back. The documents will be ready in a week.”
They finalized the details. Mike gave Alex his business card and asked for his phone number. Tony took another hundred photos. Before they left, the appraiser said:
“Alex, if you ever decide to sell, give me a call. I have clients who would kill for a car like this. In a good way.”
“Thanks. I’ll definitely let you know if I decide to.”
The appraisers left. Alex remained alone, sitting behind the wheel of the Bel Air. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars. He could buy a house. A nice one, downtown. He could open his own auto shop. A big one, with all the latest equipment. He could not work at all for three or four years, if he lived modestly. He could do so much.
But for now, he just wanted to drive this car. To feel what his grandpa felt when he sat behind this wheel. To understand what he was thinking, where he was going, what he was dreaming of.
Alex patted the steering wheel. The leather under his fingers was warm, alive.
“Thanks, Grandpa,” he whispered. “Thanks for everything.”
He started the engine and let it warm up. Then he put it in gear and slowly drove out of the garage. The car moved smoothly, gracefully. The steering was a bit heavy, but responsive. The brakes worked perfectly. The engine didn’t sputter or stall.
Alex drove around the industrial park. He returned to the garage, parked the car, and shut off the engine. He sat there for a moment, thinking. He needed to replace the tires. The old ones, even though they looked fine, could blow out at any moment. He needed to check the brake system. The fluid was probably old. He needed to replace all the technical fluids and filters. It would take time. A week, maybe two. But it had to be done before he took it out on the road.
Alex pulled out his phone and searched: “tires for 1953 Chevy Bel Air.” He found a few options. Prices ranged from $800 to $1200 for a set. Expensive, but manageable. He called one of the shops and checked their stock. They had them and could deliver them tomorrow.
“Deliver them,” Alex said. “I’ll give you the address.”
He placed the order. Then he called a few other places and ordered brake fluid, oil, and filters. All for delivery the next day. The money was flowing. He’d already spent about two thousand dollars. But these were necessary expenses.
Alex got out of the car and covered it with the tarp again. He closed the garage and went home. At home, he opened his laptop and started researching the Bel Air. He read articles, watched videos, and browsed forums for classic car owners. He learned more and more. About the car’s design, its features, its common problems. About how to properly care for it, how to repair it, where to find parts.
He was immersing himself in this world. The world of classic cars, retro festivals, and collectors. It was interesting. Genuinely interesting. The hours flew by. Alex was glued to the screen. Reading, watching, taking notes. By evening, his head was buzzing with information, but he felt a strange sense of joy. He had found his passion. Something that truly captivated him. Something he wanted to do not for the money, but simply because it was interesting.
In the evening, he ordered a pizza, ate, and continued his research. He found a forum for Bel Air owners, registered, and created a new thread: “Just inherited a 1953 Chevy Bel Air. Advice for a newbie.” Within half an hour, the replies started pouring in. Dozens of comments. People gave advice, asked questions, and requested photos. Alex uploaded a few pictures he’d taken on his phone.
The reaction was immediate. “That’s a masterpiece.” “A car in that condition is a unicorn.” “Are you selling?” “I’ll give you eighty grand for it right now.” “Where was it stored?” “How did it stay in such good shape?”
Alex answered the questions and thanked everyone for their advice. He felt like he was part of a community, part of something bigger than just owning a car.
That night, before going to sleep, he reread his grandpa’s letter, slowly taking in every word. “Live, Alex, live a life you can be proud of.” Alex folded the letter, put it in the nightstand, lay down, and closed his eyes. A new life, new opportunities, a new him lay ahead. And he was ready.
The next two weeks flew by. Alex threw himself into working on the car. During the day, he went to his job at the auto shop—he couldn’t just leave Greg in the lurch, and he still needed the money, however little. But his evenings and weekends were spent in the garage.
The new tires arrived. Alex mounted and balanced them himself, using equipment he borrowed from a friend at a tire shop. He replaced all the fluids: engine oil, transmission fluid, brake fluid, coolant. He flushed the fuel system, cleaned the carburetor, and replaced the spark plugs.
The work came easily. His hands knew every move; his years as a mechanic had not been wasted. But this was different. It wasn’t routine, it wasn’t for money. It was for himself. For his soul.
Mike sent over all the documents: the expert appraisal, the valuation, the technical inspection report. Everything was in perfect order. Alex took the documents to the DMV and submitted his application for the title transfer. Two weeks, three at most, the same woman at the counter told him. This time, she was much friendlier—apparently, the impressive paperwork for a classic car had made an impression.
Alex also opened a bank account and deposited most of the money from his grandpa’s inheritance. He kept only a few thousand in cash for current expenses. The rest was in the bank, earning a little interest.
Life was looking up. The new apartment was comfortable and quiet. The neighbors were indeed elderly, didn’t make noise, and greeted him when they met. His job at the auto shop continued as usual: cars, customers, oil changes, suspension repairs—all the same. But inside, everything had changed. Alex felt like he was living differently. He had a purpose, a meaning, something to wake up for in the morning.
Tina never called. Not once. Alex didn’t call her either. What was the point? Everything had been said; it was over. Sometimes he thought about her, remembered moments from their life together, but without pain. Just as memories of something long past that no longer mattered.
Victor didn’t get in touch either. But they had rarely spoken before, anyway. Only at family holidays, and even then, more out of obligation than desire. Everything was calm. Too calm.
Then, on a Wednesday, while Alex was at work, he got a call from an unknown number.
“Hello? Is this Alex Miller?”
A woman’s voice, formal and stern.
“Yes, this is he.”
“This is the law firm of Sterling & Associates. We’re calling on behalf of your brother, Victor Miller, who has filed a petition to contest the will of your grandfather, Peter Miller. You will be served with a summons to appear in court. The hearing is scheduled for the 20th of this month.”
Alex froze, the phone pressed to his ear.
“I’m sorry, what? Contest the will?”
“Your brother believes the distribution of the estate was inequitable. He is demanding a re-evaluation of the assets and a redistribution of the shares.”
“But the will was written by my grandfather. It’s all legal.”
“The court will decide that. You will receive an official notice. We recommend you retain legal counsel. Goodbye.”
She hung up. Alex stood in the middle of the auto shop, unable to move. Victor. Victor was suing him. But why? He got the house, worth $400,000. Why would he want an old garage?
Then it hit him. The car. He found out about the car. Somehow, he found out that a classic Bel Air worth a fortune was in the garage. But how could he have known? Alex hadn’t told anyone. Except for the appraiser and the people on the forum. But on the forum, he hadn’t used his real name, his city, or the exact address.
So, it had to be the appraiser. No, Mike seemed like a decent guy. He wouldn’t do that. Alex tried to clear his head. He called the appraiser.
“Mike? This is Alex Miller, the owner of the Bel Air.”
“Oh, Alex, hi. How’s the car coming along?”
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