The radio is plastic and cheap

The radio is plastic and cheap.

I expected it to be dead like everything else in here,

but I plugged it in and the dial lit up.

It still works.

On the shelf next to it, a stack of receipts.

1987. Gas station. Hardware store.

Dated proof that he existed.

That he bought things. That he went places.

The oil rags are folded neatly,

stacked like someone cared about order.

Like someone had habits.

I don't know who he was, really.

I came to the garage and found his evidence.

The radio that still picks up voices.

The receipts that still show his handwriting.

The rags that smell like something lived here.

I'm taking the radio.

It's the only thing that still works.

The only thing that still has a voice.