The workshop was busy again the next morning.
The air was still cool, the sun not fully up, but the sound of engines had already filled the street. My father opened the shop as usual on time, without complaint. My mother arranged order notes on the wooden table, its edges rounded by years of use.
I helped quietly.
What had happened a few days earlier was not mentioned. No one brought it up, as if we had all agreed to store it in the same place between the noise of machines and the smell of oil.
The day went on normally. Too normally.
Until a motorcycle that was almost finished began acting up again. The customer grumbled, his voice rising. My father lowered his head and checked the engine once more, taking longer than he should have for something that simple.
I knew the cause.
I could see it clearly.
My hand moved on instinct then stopped.
I chose silence.
My mother stepped in, calming the customer. My father fixed the issue without asking, without looking at me. The problem was resolved. The workshop returned to its steady hum.
But something remained in my chest heavy, and uncomfortable.
That afternoon, after the school bell rang, I walked more slowly than usual. My steps carried me past another building, down a corridor I didn't normally use.
I wasn't looking for anyone.
But when I glanced up to the second floor, I saw her again.
A different day. A different light. She stood by the window holding a folder, speaking with a teacher. Her expression was serious, calm. When the teacher left, she let out a small breath and smiled faintly a smile meant for no one in particular.
I stopped for a moment.
Not because I wanted to approach her.
But because I wanted to remember.
This wasn't a one-day coincidence.
Not an illusion.
Not a passing feeling.
Another day. The same person.
I didn't greet her. I didn't look for an excuse. I simply walked away, placing her face in a quiet corner of my mind like a small note I would open later, at the right time.
That night, the house was quiet again.
My father and mother sat side by side, not looking at each other.
"Tomorrow," my mother said softly, "let him help a little more."
My father was silent for a moment.
"…Slowly," he replied at last.
In my room, I closed my textbook.
I was beginning to understand something.
Change wasn't only about what I could do.
It was also about when I chose to show it
and to whom.