“Click, Click, Rain”

The mall was closed.

Ava stepped into the concrete hush of the parking garage, heels sharp against the wet floor—click, click, click. Overhead lights buzzed faintly, some flickering like they were holding their breath. The air smelled like cold cement and motor oil.

She tugged her trench coat tighter. Beneath it, she wore her navy skirt suit, a cream blouse buttoned high at the neck, pantyhose that now clung damply to her legs. Her black heels pinched her toes. She looked ready for a boardroom.

But she was only walking toward a car she hated.

The 1978 Honda Civic sat alone beneath a dying light on Level 3, powder blue faded into gray. Rust trimmed the edges like creeping ivy. The rear bumper drooped. Rain drifted in through the open sides of the garage, misting her as she approached.

She didn’t look at it. Not yet.

Not until she saw the other car.

A black sedan.

Parked near the elevator shaft, tucked into shadow.

New. Clean. Dark windows. No lights on.

Her pace quickened.

She reached the Civic and opened the door with the familiar upward tug and outward shove. The seat was cold and stiff under her. The steering wheel felt like stone.

She slipped the key in and paused.

She pumped the gas pedal—one, two, three—steady. Her ex-husband’s voice echoed in her mind.

“Three slow pumps. Not too fast, or you’ll flood it.”

She turned the key.

Rrrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr…

Just cranking.

Her stomach dropped.

No sputter.

It was the kind of start that meant she wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

She tried again, her heel tapping harder this time.

Rrrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr…

Nothing.

She let the key go and leaned back. Closed her eyes. Listened to the rain hitting the far end of the garage.

Her mind drifted—without wanting it to—back to the morning she’d missed inventory because the Civic just cranked. That time, she’d gone knocking on Steve’s door.

He opened it in a bathrobe.

“Again?”

She’d nodded, already apologizing.

He’d shuffled out, cigarette dangling, and popped his trunk. Jumper cables again. He always had them.

“You know the drill.”

And she did. He stood with his arms folded while she sat behind the wheel, holding the key, pumping the gas over and over while the engine spun like a wind-up toy that never clicked.

That morning, it had taken nearly forty minutes.

She’d shown up to work with sweat on her temples and grease on her fingers.

Now, here she was again.

She pumped the pedal sharply, trying to jolt the car awake.

Turned the key.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—

Still just cranking.

Her leg already ached.

She glanced at the black sedan.

Still there.

Still unmoving.

Her foot hovered over the gas, sore. She let it rest a second, flexed her calf.

She remembered Ray from work.

Late at night. The two of them alone in the store lot. Her car had done this exact thing—just crank, no spark.

Ray had offered to stay.

“Don’t wear the battery down,” he said. “Let it rest. Then go again.”

They’d stood under a streetlamp. She’d tried. And tried. Then it started.

And immediately stalled.

She tried again.

It started.

Stalled again.

Ray had just nodded, calm. Always calm.

They’d gone through the cycle five times before the Civic decided to stay alive.

By the time she left, the lot was empty, and the streets were dark.

Now, she pumped again, the rhythm burning into her thigh. Her teeth clenched.

Turned the key.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—

Still nothing.

The dashboard lights dimmed slightly.

She tried not to think about it. Not to count how long she’d been sitting here.

The car wasn’t going to help her.

And no one else was either.

She remembered the grocery store lot. A Sunday, cold and bright. Her Civic had cranked there too. A man in his sixties had approached, kind-eyed and warm.

“Need a jump?”

He’d hooked up the cables, then stepped back.

“Pump it quick while you turn the key. She’s not going to go easy.”

She had. And he’d been right. It had started.

Then died.

Then started again.

Died again.

She remembered her hand cramping on the key. Her foot aching from the pedal. She remembered him nodding sympathetically, but still—standing there, not helping with the start. Just watching.

Just like all of them did.

Even the maintenance guy at her building—he’d charge her five bucks every time she needed a jump. Always leaning against his truck, arms crossed, offering instructions without lifting a finger.

“Crank it hard.”

“More gas.”

“Try again.”

They never got in the driver’s seat.

They never did the hard part.

She turned the key again.

Rrrr… rrr… rr…

Slower now.

The battery was dying.

Ava leaned her forehead against the steering wheel.

Rain hissed on the roof above.

Her throat tightened.

She hated this car.

Hated how it made her feel—weak, watched, responsible for something she couldn’t control.

She looked up.

The black sedan still hadn’t moved.

Then—it did.

Its headlights flicked on.

The engine turned over, quiet and smooth.

It pulled slowly from the shadows and rolled past her car.

She turned her head to follow it, heart thudding.

The windows were too dark to see inside.

It didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Just glided down the ramp and disappeared.

She stared at the empty space it left behind.

And for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t angry.

She was scared.

She whispered, to no one:

“Why didn’t they help?”

But she already knew.

Because this wasn’t like the other times.

No one was watching her to help her.

They were just watching.

The mall was closed.

Ava stepped into the concrete hush of the parking garage, heels sharp against the wet floor—click, click, click. Overhead lights buzzed faintly, some flickering like they were holding their breath. The air smelled like cold cement and motor oil.

She tugged her trench coat tighter. Beneath it, she wore her navy skirt suit, a cream blouse buttoned high at the neck, pantyhose that now clung damply to her legs. Her black heels pinched her toes. She looked ready for a boardroom.

But she was only walking toward a car she hated.

The 1978 Honda Civic sat alone beneath a dying light on Level 3, powder blue faded into gray. Rust trimmed the edges like creeping ivy. The rear bumper drooped. Rain drifted in through the open sides of the garage, misting her as she approached.

She didn’t look at it. Not yet.

Not until she saw the other car.

A black sedan.

Parked near the elevator shaft, tucked into shadow.

New. Clean. Dark windows. No lights on.

Her pace quickened.

She reached the Civic and opened the door with the familiar upward tug and outward shove. The seat was cold and stiff under her. The steering wheel felt like stone.

She slipped the key in and paused.

She pumped the gas pedal—one, two, three—steady. Her ex-husband’s voice echoed in her mind.

“Three slow pumps. Not too fast, or you’ll flood it.”

She turned the key.

Rrrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr…

Just cranking.

Her stomach dropped.

No sputter.

It was the kind of start that meant she wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

She tried again, her heel tapping harder this time.

Rrrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr…

Nothing.

She let the key go and leaned back. Closed her eyes. Listened to the rain hitting the far end of the garage.

Her mind drifted—without wanting it to—back to the morning she’d missed inventory because the Civic just cranked. That time, she’d gone knocking on Steve’s door.

He opened it in a bathrobe.

“Again?”

She’d nodded, already apologizing.

He’d shuffled out, cigarette dangling, and popped his trunk. Jumper cables again. He always had them.

“You know the drill.”

And she did. He stood with his arms folded while she sat behind the wheel, holding the key, pumping the gas over and over while the engine spun like a wind-up toy that never clicked.

That morning, it had taken nearly forty minutes.

She’d shown up to work with sweat on her temples and grease on her fingers.

Now, here she was again.

She pumped the pedal sharply, trying to jolt the car awake.

Turned the key.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—

Still just cranking.

Her leg already ached.

She glanced at the black sedan.

Still there.

Still unmoving.

Her foot hovered over the gas, sore. She let it rest a second, flexed her calf.

She remembered Ray from work.

Late at night. The two of them alone in the store lot. Her car had done this exact thing—just crank, no spark.

Ray had offered to stay.

“Don’t wear the battery down,” he said. “Let it rest. Then go again.”

They’d stood under a streetlamp. She’d tried. And tried. Then it started.

And immediately stalled.

She tried again.

It started.

Stalled again.

Ray had just nodded, calm. Always calm.

They’d gone through the cycle five times before the Civic decided to stay alive.

By the time she left, the lot was empty, and the streets were dark.

Now, she pumped again, the rhythm burning into her thigh. Her teeth clenched.

Turned the key.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—

Still nothing.

The dashboard lights dimmed slightly.

She tried not to think about it. Not to count how long she’d been sitting here.

The car wasn’t going to help her.

And no one else was either.

She remembered the grocery store lot. A Sunday, cold and bright. Her Civic had cranked there too. A man in his sixties had approached, kind-eyed and warm.

“Need a jump?”

He’d hooked up the cables, then stepped back.

“Pump it quick while you turn the key. She’s not going to go easy.”

She had. And he’d been right. It had started.

Then died.

Then started again.

Died again.

She remembered her hand cramping on the key. Her foot aching from the pedal. She remembered him nodding sympathetically, but still—standing there, not helping with the start. Just watching.

Just like all of them did.

Even the maintenance guy at her building—he’d charge her five bucks every time she needed a jump. Always leaning against his truck, arms crossed, offering instructions without lifting a finger.

“Crank it hard.”

“More gas.”

“Try again.”

They never got in the driver’s seat.

They never did the hard part.

She turned the key again.

Rrrr… rrr… rr…

Slower now.

The battery was dying.

Ava leaned her forehead against the steering wheel.

Rain hissed on the roof above.

Her throat tightened.

She hated this car.

Hated how it made her feel—weak, watched, responsible for something she couldn’t control.

She looked up.

The black sedan still hadn’t moved.

Then—it did.

Its headlights flicked on.

The engine turned over, quiet and smooth.

It pulled slowly from the shadows and rolled past her car.

She turned her head to follow it, heart thudding.

The windows were too dark to see inside.

It didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Just glided down the ramp and disappeared.

She stared at the empty space it left behind.

And for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t angry.

She was scared.

She whispered, to no one:

“Why didn’t they help?”

But she already knew.

Because this wasn’t like the other times.

No one was watching her to help her.

They were just watching.