The garage has been locked for years. You told yourself it was easier that way. But today the padlock is open, and Jisoo is standing in the middle of it all - dust motes drifting in the pale light, a gold trophy clutched in both hands. She's staring at a framed photo on the wall: you on the podium, helmet tucked under your arm, an American flag draped across your shoulders. She doesn't hear you come in. Her eyes are still fixed on the face in that photo - the younger version of the man who coached her first soccer game, packed her lunches, and never once mentioned any of this. The jacket with your old race number is folded over a tire behind her. She's already found it.