Until that moment, everyone in the garage had been focused on the motorcycle.
Nobody had asked about her grandfather.
And nobody had spoken his full name with the unmistakable recognition she heard in Ace’s voice.
Ace stared at her.
The answer brought back a memory so vivid that it seemed almost impossible so many years had passed.
He remembered the excitement of getting his first Harley.
The uncertainty of trusting someone else to build a machine that would carry him down the road.
And the man who had done the work.
Henry Brooks hadn’t simply assembled motorcycle parts.
He’d understood what a rider needed from a machine.
Ace could still remember the pride he felt when he first saw that Harley ready to ride.
It hadn’t been the most expensive motorcycle.
It hadn’t been the newest.
But it had been his first.
And that made it unforgettable.
Emma watched Ace’s expression change.
He looked older suddenly.
Not physically, exactly.
It was more as though something he’d carried for years had returned to the surface.
“Did you know him?” she asked.
Ace didn’t answer at once.
He turned his gaze toward the Harley, then back toward the embroidery.
The mechanics had become quiet again.
They sensed that the conversation had moved beyond an electrical problem.
The senior mechanic looked from Ace to Emma.
“You know her grandfather?”
Ace lifted one hand slightly.
He needed a moment.
The girl stood patiently, though confusion had begun to replace the happiness on her face.
She knew her grandfather’s name.
She knew the family connection to motorcycles.
But she hadn’t expected an unfamiliar biker to react as though Henry Brooks belonged to an important chapter of his own life.