At 7:12 on a bright Saturday morning in Pasadena, Elena stood in the middle of her late father’s garage, holding a bent garden rake and wondering how a room could contain so many years. A cracked surfboard leaned against the water heater. Cardboard boxes sagged beneath old holiday decorations. In the corner, a workbench disappeared under tools, paint cans, and a mysterious collection of coffee tins. Outside, the narrow driveway was already warming in the sun.
