A young man holding a camera laughs next to an older man with a wrench in his hair, inside a cluttered garage.

In the foreground, a **young man in his late teens or early twenties** holds the camera at arm’s length, caught mid-laugh. His **hair is shorter than it is now**, dark and tousled without the deliberate messiness he’d later adopt. A faint smear of **engine grease runs across his cheekbone**, likely unnoticed in the moment. He wears a **pale yellow T-shirt**, the kind with a cracked vintage band logo faded from too many washes. The color brightens his face, making the **warm undertones in his skin glow in the soft afternoon light**. His **jeans are light-washed and slightly baggy**, knees fraying, and there's a kind of sunburnt youth about him — raw, open, unguarded. To his right stands **an older man**, broad-shouldered, with **weathered skin and long black hair streaked with gray**. A thick **mustache** lines his upper lip, and his eyes, though stern, are filled with unmistakable affection. He wears a **white tank top tucked into olive work pants**, arms crossed, muscles dusted with flecks of motor oil and the faint outlines of **faded tattoos** — symbols of a hard-earned life. A **socket wrench is tucked behind one ear**, and though his mouth is set in a near-scowl, his body leans ever so slightly toward the younger man, betraying a quieter pride. His presence is grounding, like stone. Behind them, the background is cluttered but intimate: a **dim garage** filled with tools, oil cans, rusted engine parts, and a **half-rebuilt motorcycle** sitting on a cinderblock stand. See more