I came out late from the shop, hands still smelling like damp stems and soil.
The car was the only one left in the lot. Under the wiper blade, a folded scrap of paper.
It was your handwriting. "Did I tell you today? I love you." On a Tuesday, freezing, after a double shift.
I keep a flashlight by the back door for when I get home after you've already left.
That night I used it to check every window of the car. Found six more notes tucked under wipers, hidden in the door handle, wedged between the seat.