The morning began like any other in Jack Turner’s life. The garage smelled of oil, steel, and the faint sweetness of burnt rubber. It was his world, the only place where he felt in control. He had spent years fixing other people’s cars, chasing the sound of engines like some people chased music. The sun hadn’t even risen fully, yet his hands were already covered in grease as he worked under a worn-out pickup truck.

Jack was a mechanic who believed in precision. Every bolt had its place, every sound told a story. He had been repairing cars since he was sixteen. Now at thirty-five, he ran a small repair shop on the edge of a quiet American town, just a short drive from the highway. His customers trusted him because he never cut corners.

That morning, the pickup’s owner had rushed him. “Please, Jack, I need it done by noon.” Jack just nodded and slid under the vehicle. He noticed a crack on the support beam holding the car up but thought it would last another hour. It was a mistake—a tiny one, the kind mechanics make when they’re tired.

The radio played an old country song, the kind his father used to hum. Jack smiled faintly, thinking about the long hours, the smell of gasoline, the satisfaction of turning a dead engine alive. He reached for his wrench and twisted a stubborn bolt. That’s when he heard a faint creak above him.

He froze. The sound grew louder, like metal complaining under pressure. Jack tried to roll out, but the world turned white before he could move. The beam snapped. The truck dropped. He heard the crash, felt the crushing weight, then silence.

There was no pain, only a strange warmth flooding through him. His breath faded. The radio stopped.

When he opened his eyes again, the light was wrong. The ceiling wasn’t metal—it was wood. He blinked, trying to adjust. Dust floated in the air, and sunlight poured through gaps in rough planks. He sat up, dizzy. The smell was no longer gasoline but hay and soil.

He looked around. The floor beneath him was straw. Old farming tools leaned against the wall—axes, wooden wheels, rusted plows. Outside the open barn door, he saw rolling green hills and a dirt road stretching into the horizon. Horses pulled wooden carts, and people in rough clothes walked by. No cars. No wires. No sound of engines.

“What the hell…” he muttered.

He stumbled outside, feeling the uneven ground beneath his boots. The air was fresh, too clean, almost unreal. Villagers looked at him with wide eyes. He was wearing a grease-stained mechanic’s uniform, his name stitched on the chest. They whispered, pointing, unsure if he was man or ghost.

A boy approached cautiously, holding a basket of apples. “Mister, are you lost?”

Jack tried to answer, but his voice cracked. “Where am I?”

The boy frowned. “You’re in Brenton Valley.”

“Brenton Valley?” Jack repeated. He had never heard of it. “What state?”

The boy tilted his head. “State?”

Something cold crawled down Jack’s spine. He turned toward the hills again. No power lines, no paved roads, no sign of anything modern. The world around him looked like a painting from two hundred years ago.

He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. It was real. Everything was real. Somehow, he wasn’t dead. Somehow, he had woken up in another world.

He wandered toward a wooden fence and leaned against it, staring at the horizon. His mind was a storm of disbelief and questions. But one thought cut through the noise.

If he could fix cars in his world, maybe he could build one here.

Jack clenched his fists, looking at the simple wagons rolling by. The people had never seen wheels move on their own. Engines were just a dream waiting to be born. He smiled faintly, the same smile he gave every time he faced an impossible repair.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Let’s see what I can make out of this.”

The wind rustled through the tall grass as if answering his challenge. Somewhere in that strange ancient land, the legend of the first mechanic was about to begin.