Bartlet Residence Garage

A compact, dim concrete bay tucked at the edge of the Bartlet family home, the garage hums with a single fluorescent tube and tastes faintly of cold metal and motor oil. Metal shelving and toolboxes press against one wall, a faded rubber mat cushions the entry, and a heavy roll-up door creaks on its tracks. The air holds antifreeze and the memory of a private, violent exit; the space functions as a threshold where domestic routines meet hidden suffering, reverberating with shame, secrecy, and the particular stillness of nights when memories return like footsteps.