Daytime never gave him anything beyond routine.
The logistics warehouse was wide, noisy, and heavy with the smell of damp cardboard and machine oil. Metal clanged against metal. Forklifts whined as they moved between narrow lanes. Voices shouted instructions that sounded the same every day, blending into a rhythm that never changed.
Reza had memorized it all.
When the lunch break whistle blew, the others scattered quickly. Some lit cigarettes near the loading dock. Some sat on the floor with lunch boxes in their hands. Others leaned against stacks of crates, eyes closed, stealing a few minutes of rest before the afternoon shift began.
Reza didn't stay.
He crossed the street.
Not all the way—just far enough to stand on the edge of the sidewalk, facing an old workshop directly across from the warehouse. The paint on its walls had peeled away in places. The metal sign above the entrance was faded, some letters barely readable anymore.
Inside that workshop, there was one thing that always caught his eye.
An old sport motorcycle.
Its paint had long lost its shine. The frame carried the marks of age. A thin scratches, dulled bolts, small imperfections that told stories without words. It didn't look fast.
But it looked alive.
Reza stood there in silence, watching from a distance. His gaze wasn't empty, nor was it filled with excitement. It was the look of someone staring at something familiar without knowing why.
Across the street, inside the workshop, an old man noticed him.
His hair was white, his posture no longer straight, but his eyes were sharp. This wasn't the first time he had seen the young man standing there. Always at the same hour, always in the same spot, always watching.
Only watching. Never entering. Never speaking.
The second whistle echoed through the air.
Break time was over.
Reza took a long drink from his plastic bottle, capped it, and turned away without looking back at the workshop. His steps were calm, unhurried, as if what he had just done meant nothing at all.
The next day, he was there again.
Same place. Same time. Same quiet stare.
And the day after that.
Until the old man finally stepped out of the workshop.
He crossed the street slowly and stopped a few steps away from Reza.
"You," he said. His voice was low, rough with age. "What's your name?"
Reza flinched slightly, then turned.
"Reza, sir."
"Why do you stand here every day?"
The old man's tone wasn't accusing—just curious.
"You don't come in. You don't talk. You just look."
Reza hesitated.
He wasn't good at explanations.
"I like motorcycles," he said honestly.
"I like riding."
The old man narrowed his eyes, as if weighing something unseen. He glanced back at the workshop, then returned his gaze to Reza.
"What do you see in that bike?"
Reza took a quiet breath.
"I don't know," he said.
"It feels… different."
For a moment, the old man didn't reply.
Then he gave a small nod.
"Then come, take a closer look."
He turned and walked back toward the workshop. Reza paused for a fraction of a second before following. His steps were light, but his heartbeat felt louder than usual.
Inside, the workshop smelled of oil and old metal. Tools hung from the walls in no particular order. The motorcycle stood there, resting on its stand like something waiting to be remembered.
The old man spoke slowly. About the engine that refused to behave. About parts that no longer existed anywhere else. About mistakes he had made and learned from over many years.
Reza listened without interrupting.
The man's name was Morgan.
"This bike," Morgan said, resting a hand on the tank, "wasn't built to be gentle."
Reza nodded, though he wasn't sure why.
"It doesn't forgive sloppy hands," Morgan continued. "And it doesn't care about fear."
Silence settled between them.
Morgan stepped back and studied Reza, really looked at him this time. At the way he stood. At how his eyes kept returning to the motorcycle, not greedily, not impatiently—but with respect.
"You ride," Morgan said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Reza replied.
Morgan was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached for the key hanging near the workbench.
"Then why don't you try it?"
The words hung in the air.
Reza didn't move.
Inside his chest, something stirred—something he hadn't felt since late nights on empty roads, chasing time with a delivery box strapped behind him.
"I'm not asking you to push it," Morgan added.
"Just listen to it."
Reza stepped closer.
The motorcycle felt heavier up close. Not in weight, but in presence. He swung a leg over carefully, as if afraid to disturb something fragile.
Morgan watched him the entire time.
"Easy," he said. "Let it breathe."
Reza turned the key.
The engine coughed once.
Then roared.
The sound filled the workshop—raw, uneven, alive. It wasn't smooth. It wasn't polite. It vibrated straight through his bones.
Reza's fingers tightened around the throttle.
For the first time in a long while, the noise inside his head went quiet.
Morgan smiled—not wide, not proud,but knowing.
Outside, the warehouse continued its rhythm. Forklifts moved. Orders were shouted. Time marched forward like it always did.
But inside that old workshop, something had shifted.
And neither of them said it out loud.
Not yet.