At just eighteen, Daniel found himself caught up in the monotony of a dull, unglamorous warehouse job.
He spent most days on the late shift, often lifting heavy boxes off trucks or sifting through countless stacks of inventory in a chilly back room. Each morning, he dragged himself out of bed as the first light broke, hurriedly shoved some breakfast into his mouth, and hopped on a bus for a thirty-minute ride to the industrial area of town. There it was, the enormous steel structure he referred to as “the warehouse,” nestled among the broken sidewalks, dim streetlamps, and deserted shops that whispered tales of a more prosperous past.
He had grown accustomed to the desolation of that area. Many of the shops have shut down over the years, leaving behind dusty windows and worn-out signs. Every day, Daniel found himself drawn to one particular storefront: a bike shop that used to shine with bright neon letters proclaiming “Morgan’s Bikes.” Now, the windows were covered in dirt, and a crooked sign reading “CLOSED” dangled from the door. There were whispers that the owner, a guy named Morgan, had suddenly packed up and left town. Some people claimed he just decided to retire. Regardless of the details, the bike shop had been closed for months.