The Name Above the Workshop

When customers began calling the workshop Mina's Repairs, she corrected them automatically. It was still Bell's, according to the sign her father had painted thirty years earlier. Although she had taken over the business, keeping his name seemed easier than explaining why he no longer came downstairs. People accepted a familiar sign without asking awkward questions.

One wet Tuesday, a delivery driver refused to leave a parcel because Mina's name was missing from the order. While she searched for identification, he pointed at the faded lettering. She felt absurdly like an employee trying to prove that she belonged. That evening, she ordered a new sign without discussing it with her father.

He watched the installation from his bedroom window. Later, he asked whether the old board had been thrown away. Mina had expected anger, and his practical question unsettled her. She showed him where she had stored it behind the workbench. He ran a finger over the letters, then admitted that his brother had actually painted them.

They hung the old board inside, beside the spare parts. Outside, the new sign said Mina Bell Repairs, a name neither entirely inherited nor entirely invented. The following morning, someone asked for Mr Bell. Mina said he was upstairs and asked what needed fixing. She did not explain the sign. For once, the repair itself was enough to begin with.