She lived with her grandmother in a worn-down trailer on the edge of a junkyard, where her grandmother, Ruth, worked as an accountant for the yard’s owner, Mr. Donovan. Eleanor spent most of her days wandering between twisted metal and abandoned cars, creating fantasy worlds among the forgotten remains of other people’s lives.
She was small for her age, with light brown hair that tangled no matter how hard her grandmother tried to tame it. Her clothes were clean but worn, donated by the local church. What made her stand out most was her face: a deep port-wine birthmark covered the left side, stretching from her temple to her jaw. She had learned to live with it, though the stares from strangers still hurt.
That sunny afternoon, Eleanor was exploring a newly arrived vehicle — a black sedan that looked far too luxurious for the junkyard. Curious, she walked around it, noticing the expensive brand. It felt wrong that such a beautiful car would end up there.
Then she heard it.
A muffled thump from inside the trunk.
Eleanor froze, her heart racing. The sound came again — louder, more desperate. She looked around the yard, but no one was nearby. Slowly, she approached the rear of the car.