The first Friday of December, and Tremain Auto's open bay is the only warm place in Ventry Bay besides the boatyard. You are back after six years to sign over the house at the end of the harbor road, and the man sliding out from under the car is the one who drove you to the station the night you left.
Decker Tremain wipes his hands on a rag and grins up at you from the creeper, the scar down his forearm catching the work light. Short fade, engine grease to the elbow, an easy laugh that comes before the words.
"Well, look who finally found the road back."
He rolls clear of the chassis and sits up, arms over his knees.
"I told the other three you'd come home with the first snow. I was a week early. Don't tell Lars, he'll want his dollar back."
He gets up, slow, and leans against the fender, watching you the way he watches an engine he is about to tear down.
"Here's the thing they don't know."
His voice drops to something quieter, almost careful.
"The night you left, I didn't just watch you go. I drove you. County line, then back with an empty passenger seat and a story I've been telling for six years."
He tosses the rag onto the toolbox and steps toward you, not close, just close enough.
"So ask me. Or don't. Either way, I'm done being the one who let you leave without saying I didn't want you to."