Elijah couldn’t stop thinking about that name: Wells.
As he drove back toward the city, his car humming along after Amara’s roadside magic, the past began to piece itself together in his mind like a jigsaw puzzle.
His grandfather, Howard Brooks, had spoken only once—maybe twice—about the love he had lost. Her name had been Delilah Wells. They had fallen for each other in the early 1960s, a time when interracial love was taboo, even dangerous. Howard came from a wealthy Southern family. Delilah, a brilliant and ambitious Black woman, worked as a schoolteacher.
Their relationship had been real, passionate… and ultimately torn apart.
Family pressure had been the final blow. Howard’s father forbade the relationship, and Delilah—strong-willed and unwilling to be hidden or shamed—walked away. All Howard had left was the ring he’d once given her.
But now, decades later, that same ring had appeared on the finger of a woman named Amara Wells. A woman who had just saved Elijah, unknowingly unlocking a buried piece of his family’s history.
He kept glancing at the business card she’d given him:
Amara’s Auto – Est. 2005. Southside, Atlanta.
Beneath it: “Honest repairs. No games.”
The next day, Elijah did something he hadn’t done in years—he drove down to the Southside. Past the high-rises and co-working spaces of Midtown, beyond the condos and coffee shops of Inman Park, deeper into the old neighborhoods that still pulsed with soul and struggle.
Amara’s Auto sat on a quiet corner across from a barbecue joint and a shuttered laundromat. The building was modest, painted bright blue with bold white letters.
Elijah stepped inside. The smell of motor oil and coffee hit him at once. A young guy behind the counter looked up.
“You looking for a tune-up?”
“Actually… I’m looking for Amara.”
“Back in Bay 2,” the guy said, jerking a thumb toward the garage.
Elijah followed the sound of metal clanging and engines humming until he found her under the hood of a Mustang. She didn’t look surprised to see him.
“Car break down again already?” she asked, smirking.
“No,” he said, his voice more serious. “But I need to talk to you.”
Amara straightened up, wiped her hands, and nodded. “Alright. Shoot.”
He hesitated. “Yesterday, when you told me your name… I didn’t say much, but—my grandfather’s name was Howard Brooks.”
Her eyes widened just slightly. He continued.
“He once told me about a woman he loved. A Black woman named Delilah Wells. She wore a ring that looks exactly like yours. When I saw it yesterday… it hit me like a brick.”
Amara stared at him, her features unreadable.
“My mom’s name was Jasmine Wells,” she said quietly. “She passed three years ago. She didn’t talk about her father. Every time I asked, she said he wasn’t around and didn’t want to be.”
Elijah swallowed hard. “My grandfather… I don’t think he knew she was pregnant. He always believed Delilah just left.”
