It all began when we moved into the neighborhood. After spending years living in a cramped apartment, Rachel and I were eager to start fresh. We found a charming, three-bedroom house in a quiet suburban area with well-manicured lawns and tree-lined streets. The kind of place where you could finally own a house without the constant noise of city life, and where the biggest excitement seemed to be an HOA meeting or the occasional neighborhood barbecue. I’d always dreamed of owning a classic car, and the house we bought came with a two-car garage—a perfect place to store and work on my pride and joy: a 1969 Ford Mustang Fastback. It wasn’t just any car. This Mustang was a project I’d been restoring for years. Every detail had been painstakingly thought through, from the custom paint job to the upholstery. But the real work had been under the hood. The original engine had long since given out, so I decided to swap it for something more powerful: a 302 cubic-inch V8 from a 1970 Mustang. It wasn’t just an upgrade—it was my vision coming to life. It was a quiet Saturday when I decided to install the new engine. The sun was high, and it seemed like the perfect day to work on the car. After a few hours of wrenching, I had everything in place. The Mustang’s new engine roared to life, and I couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. It was more powerful than I had imagined, and everything sounded perfect. But I didn’t realize how loud it was until I took it for a quick test drive down the street. The engine rumbled with authority, shaking the air around me. I revved it a little, just to feel the power. That’s when I noticed Greg...