On a breezy evening, as Mindy stood near the old garage, she felt like she could hear faint, almost ghostly echoes drifting through the air. There were sounds that resembled the rhythmic clinking of a hammer and the distant hum of a song that Uncle Greg might have once sung.
Or maybe these sounds were just the products of her overactive imagination. She remembered the days from her childhood when she’d watch her uncle head into the garage. He would spend hours inside, only to emerge with a faraway, contemplative look on his face, as if lost in deep thought.