A tiny gleam of red caught my eye. I moved... slow, careful steps, until my boots rested on the pale wood of the windowsill. It was a little metal car. Narrow tires, painted number eight on the hood. Something inside stirred... a sharp flutter. Engines. The smell of hot asphalt and cheering crowds. I extended one long blade, tapping the rear bumper with the cold steel tip. Click. The tiny wheels spun, rolling two inches across the sunlit paint before resting against the window frame. Outside, real traffic hummed far below. I cannot hold a steering wheel anymore. But watching it glide... an old piece of me felt near.