The blinking came from a corroded ground wire, not a hidden message. Tomas had marked the fault weeks earlier but lacked the replacement connector. I repaired it while our first apprentice, Nia, watched and wrote every step on a work order. When I reached automatically for Tomas's favorite wrench, grief struck so suddenly that I had to sit on the concrete.

Nia did not tell me to be strong. She finished labeling the removed wire and waited. I explained that the wrench had been mine before Tomas adopted it. We engraved both our initials on opposite sides and added it to the shared tool board. Ownership did not need to become a contest with someone who could no longer answer.

Within a year, the cooperative restored all routes and added a maintenance reserve to every annual budget. I trained Nia to inspect brakes, listen to drivers, and refuse unsafe shortcuts. Lena stopped using the black car for ordinary meetings because it wasted fuel, though Mr. Han still drove patients who needed a quieter ride. My trailer remained my home. I repaired the steps and kept the carport bench empty.

On the anniversary of Tomas's death, I opened his toolbox under the carport. The clothbound ledger was now in the cooperative archive, but one bus pass remained beneath the tray. Its back held a route number and a time written in Tomas's hand. I checked the current schedule. The route ended at a roadside building we had once considered buying for our old garage. At the curb, Mr. Han's black car was already waiting. I did not know who had called him. I closed the toolbox, put on my work jacket, and locked the trailer before walking down the steps. The car's rear door opened, but I stayed beside the curb until I knew the destination.