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Epilogue.
Out in a junkyard, in northern Kansas sits a car. Forgotten, surrounded by unkept grass and other empty husks of what was. Her previously shining exterior is now mottled with rust, damaged by the years of weather and lack of care. Her leather seats worn, engine no longer any use. Oh, what her owner would say if he could see her now.
The owner of the junkyard is an older man, who goes by the name of Ben Braedon. He's a surly alcoholic nowadays, reduced to sitting alone in his hut, watching the days go by. He's filled with regret at what his life could have been, but after a failed marriage and years of unemployment he simply gave up. His mother had long since passed, and he no longer had anyone left to disappoint. Occasionally, he gets a visitor. A man in a long brown trench coat, who appears just as suddenly and quickly as he leaves. He talks to Ben sometimes, making useless small talk, but mostly he sits on the bonnet of that broken car, starring off into the distance for hours. Ben once asked who he was, but all the trench-coated man had done was give a small smile, before walking away.
The impala sat, unmoving, waiting to be loved once more.
One day another man came, catching Ben by surprise as he sat on his ramshackle veranda, watching morning sun above the trees.
"Hi." He said. "I'm interested in buying your cars."
Ben snorted.
"Why you'd want these piles of junk?"
"Scrap metal mate, melt 'em down."
Ben had considered the man, before agreeing to his terms. The next day the man had returned with a large truck, loading the old shells into it before driving away.
The field was now empty, patches of short grass the only remainder of the machines that had once sat there.
The trench-coat man had returned soon after, his face twisting into one of anguish when he saw the empty field.
"Where have they gone?" He asked Ben.
Ben shrugged, only getting halfway through his explanation before the man had turned, almost running to the edge of the field where the impala had sat. He reached down, pulling a small rectangle of metal out of the grass.
KAZ 2Y5
Ben couldn't see it, but a tear escaped the man's eye, falling onto the number plate.
Why have you forsaken me in this way, father?
He observed the man, before he was gone as quickly as he had arrived. The number plate lay on the grass, half visible among the tangle of plants.
Ben would never know this, but heaven lost an angel that night.
