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Engines hummed softly in the background as headlights cut through the fading light of early evening. Rows of cars lined the streets, each with its own story — some polished to a shine, others carrying the dust of long drives and busy weeks. A low rumble echoed from a nearby intersection, where a muscle car idled with quiet confidence, waiting for the light to change.
Out on the highway, everything moved in a steady rhythm. Taillights glowed red like fireflies in a line, weaving their way through the fading dusk. Inside the cabins, radios played quietly, dashboards glowed with soft light, and tires traced familiar paths over cracked asphalt. Some drivers were in a rush; others seemed content to just cruise, windows down and hands resting lightly on the wheel.
At the edge of town, a garage door creaked open, revealing an old classic under a tarp. Someone was always fixing something — a belt, a light, a squeaky hinge. Tools clinked, oil dripped, and the scent of gasoline lingered in the air. Cars came and went, just like people did. But each one had a feel, a weight, a presence — something more than just metal and motion.