The engine rumbled low, steady as a heartbeat. The sound filled the quiet back road, echoing through the trees. Jake Ryder sat behind the wheel, one hand on the shifter, the other resting on the burgundy steering wheel of his 1967 Ford Mustang Fastback — his father’s car.
It wasn’t just any car. It was the car. The one his old man called “Red Grace.”
Jake could still remember being eight years old, sitting in the passenger seat while his dad, Tom Ryder, shifted gears with a grin that could light up the whole county. The Mustang’s V8 roared down the backroads, dust swirling in their wake. “Listen close, Jake,” his father used to say. “That sound? That’s freedom. That’s life reminding you you’re not done yet.”
Those drives were everything — laughter, country radio, the smell of fuel and pine trees. But life, as always, took its toll. The Mustang was parked the day Tom got sick, and after his passing, it sat under a tarp for nearly fifteen years — rust creeping in like sorrow itself.
Until tonight.
Jake had spent every evening for the last six months bringing Red Grace back to life. Bolts replaced. Engine rebuilt. Chrome polished until he could see his reflection. And when the engine finally roared again, he swore he felt his dad’s presence — faint, but real.
Now, as the last of the autumn light faded behind the trees, Jake drove that Mustang down the same winding road where his father used to test her limits. The road was empty, save for the whisper of wind and the hum of the 390 cubic-inch engine. The car wasn’t just running — it was singing.
Jake had brought his father’s ashes with him, sitting in a small tin on the passenger seat. “You remember this road, old man?” he said quietly. “You used to say the corners here were meant for dancing.”
The Mustang growled as if in reply.
He pressed the gas, and the car surged forward, tires biting the pavement. The trees blurred, the air roared through the open windows, and for the first time in years, Jake felt free. His worries — the debts, the job he hated, the loneliness — all vanished in the rearview mirror.
As the road straightened, he could almost see his dad again — young, laughing, his arm out the window, singing to the old radio. Jake smiled through tears. “You’d be proud, Pops. She’s still got it.”
A soft breeze rustled through the car. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe it wasn’t.
He pulled over by the lake, the same spot where his dad used to stop for coffee and conversation. The sun was gone now, replaced by the glow of a thousand stars scattered across the sky. Jake got out, the crunch of leaves under his boots echoing softly.
He placed the small tin on the hood. The Mustang’s paint, dark cherry red under moonlight, gleamed like blood and wine.
“You always said this car was part of the family,” Jake whispered. “Guess it’s only right you ride with her one last time.”
He opened the tin and let the ashes scatter into the wind. They swirled, glittering faintly before drifting toward the trees. For a moment, Jake thought he saw something — a silhouette leaning on the hood beside him, arms crossed, smiling that same proud smile.
Then it was gone.
He slid back into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The Mustang roared, deep and alive. Jake rested his hand on the wheel, the leather warm from the day’s sun. He looked up at the stars, took a breath, and said, “Let’s go home, Dad.”
The tires rolled over fallen leaves as the car glided down the road, its taillights glowing red in the darkness — like embers fading into the night.
Behind him, the wind carried the faintest echo of laughter.
Epilogue
Years later, the townsfolk still talk about the night Jake Ryder took the old Mustang out for that final drive. Some say they saw two shadows inside instead of one. Others say they heard two voices singing to an old country tune as the car disappeared down the highway.
The next morning, Red Grace was found parked neatly by the lake again, gleaming, untouched. The keys sat on the dash with a note that read:
“Every engine has a soul. Every road, a story. Ours ends here.”
And though the car never ran again, when the wind swept across the trees, it carried a sound — faint, distant — like a 390 V8 humming proudly into eternity.
