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My name is Frank, and I have been alone for fourteen years. That’s not something I say for sympathy. It’s just a fact, the way the glass is hot when you bend it, the way the gas glows when you run current through it. I was married once, to a woman named Rose who worked at the diner across from my shop, who used to bring me coffee in the afternoons and stand in the doorway watching me work, her arms crossed, her head tilted, the way you watch something you don’t understand but love anyway. She left fourteen years ago. She said she couldn’t live with a man who spent his life fixing things that didn’t matter while the things that did fell apart around him. She wasn’t wrong. I was the kind of man who could spend twelve hours on a sign for a bar that was about to close, who could bend the glass just so, who could make the letters glow the way they were supposed to, but I couldn’t tell her I loved her. I couldn’t hold her hand without feeling like I was doing something I didn’t know how to do. I could fix anything that was broken, except the things that mattered.

I’ve been in the same shop for thirty years, a narrow storefront on a street that used to be full of small businesses and is now full of empty windows and For Lease signs. The shop is called Frank’s Neon, though no one calls it that anymore because no one knows it’s there. I still get work, here and there, from collectors who restore old signs and bar owners who want something that looks like it’s been there forever, but it’s not enough to live on. I live on the money I saved when the work was good, when there were more signs than I could fix, when the city was full of lights and I was the man who kept them burning. I live on that money, and I tell myself I’m okay, and I am, mostly. I have the shop. I have the glass and the gas and the torches. I have the work, when it comes. I have the quiet of the shop at night, when the street is empty and the only light is the blue glow of a tube I’m testing, the hum of the transformer, the faint buzz of something that’s still alive, still burning, still waiting for someone to see it.

I was sixty-three when I got the call about the sign. It was a Tuesday, the kind of Tuesday that doesn’t look any different from any other Tuesday, except that the woman on the phone said she had a sign she needed restored, a sign that had been in her family for three generations, a sign that had hung outside her grandfather’s diner in a town that didn’t exist anymore, a sign that was the only thing left of a life she was trying to hold onto. I told her to bring it in. She brought it in on a Thursday, a woman about my age with gray hair and tired eyes and a sign that was more broken than anything I’d seen in years. The tubes were cracked, the transformer was shot, the letters were so faded I could barely read what they said. But I could read it. It said Rose’s Diner.

I didn’t ask her if she was Rose. I didn’t ask her anything. I just took the sign and told her I’d do what I could. She gave me her number, a name that wasn’t Rose, and left, and I stood in the shop for a long time, holding the sign, looking at the letters, feeling the weight of something I’d been carrying for fourteen years. I worked on the sign for three months. I bent new tubes, matched the colors as close as I could, found a transformer that had the right hum, the one that signs used to have when they were new, before everything got quieter and cheaper and easier. I worked at night, mostly, when the street was empty and the only light was the blue glow of the tubes and the buzz of the transformer and the quiet of a man who was trying to fix something he’d broken a long time ago. I worked on the sign, and I thought about Rose. I thought about the way she used to stand in the doorway, watching me work, her arms crossed, her head tilted. I thought about the coffee she brought me in the afternoons, the way she’d leave it on the bench and not say anything, just stand there for a minute and then go back to the diner, back to her life, back to the place where I should have followed her but didn’t. I thought about the things I should have said, the things I could have fixed, the things that mattered.

I finished the sign on a Sunday night. I hung it in the window of the shop, the way I used to hang signs when I was younger, when I was proud of the work I did, when I thought the work was enough. I plugged it in, and it lit up. Rose’s Diner. The letters glowed the way they were supposed to, the way they had when they were new, before everything got broken. I stood in the street, looking at the sign, and I didn’t cry. I didn’t do anything. I just stood there, in the dark, watching the letters glow, waiting for something to happen.

Something did happen. I don’t know what made me do it, standing there in the street, the sign glowing behind me, the shop empty, the night quiet. I pulled out my phone, the way you pull out your phone when you’re standing in the street at midnight and you don’t know what you’re looking for, you just know you’re looking for something. I’d never gambled before. Not once. I’d spent my life fixing things, controlling things, making things work the way they were supposed to. I didn’t believe in chance. I didn’t believe in luck. I believed in glass and gas and the laws of physics that said if you bent the tube just right and filled it with the right gas and ran the right current through it, it would glow. I believed in things I could fix. But that night, standing under the sign I’d fixed, the sign that said Rose’s Diner, the sign that was the only thing left of a life I’d let fall apart, I wanted to believe in something I couldn’t control. I wanted to let go.

I found a site that looked legitimate. I found a Vavada slot casino, and I sat there in the street, the sign glowing above me, the phone in my hands, and I deposited fifty dollars. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d never played slots, never played cards, never put money on anything I couldn’t fix. I clicked on a game, something with a neon theme, which felt like a joke the universe was playing on me. Neon signs, bright lights, the kind of thing I’d spent my life making. I put five dollars in. I lost. I put five dollars in again. I lost again. I was down to thirty dollars, and I was about to close the phone when I saw the reels stop on something, and the screen flashed, and the balance started climbing. Not much. A little. Enough to keep playing. I played for an hour that night, standing in the street, the sign glowing, the phone in my hands, winning and losing, losing and winning, the balance going up and down, up and down, never settling, never stopping. I ended the night down twenty dollars, and I closed the phone and looked up at the sign and felt something I hadn’t felt in years. Not peace, exactly, but something closer to possibility. I’d lost twenty dollars, and I was still here. The sign was still glowing. The night was still quiet. And I was still a man who could fix things, but I was also a man who had let go, for one night, of the need to control everything.

I called the woman the next morning. I told her the sign was ready. She came to the shop that afternoon, and when she saw it, when she saw the letters glowing the way they were supposed to, when she saw the sign that had been in her family for three generations, the sign that was the only thing left of a life she was trying to hold onto, she started to cry. Not the way people cry when something is sad, but the way they cry when something has been lost and found again. She asked me how much she owed me. I told her nothing. I told her the sign was a gift. I told her I’d been working on it for three months and I didn’t want any money, I just wanted to know that it was going somewhere it would be seen, somewhere it would matter. She told me she was opening a diner, in a town that was just starting to come back, a town where people still knew what it meant to sit at a counter and drink coffee and watch the sign glow in the window. She asked me if I wanted to come see it when it opened. I said yes.

I went to the diner on a Saturday in June. It was a small place, the kind of place that looks like it’s been there forever, even though it’s new. The sign was hanging in the window, the one I’d fixed, the one that said Rose’s Diner, the one that glowed the way it was supposed to. I stood in the street, looking at it, and I thought about Rose, the one I’d lost, the one who’d left because I couldn’t fix the things that mattered. I thought about the sign I’d fixed, the one that wasn’t hers but could have been, the one that was the same name, the same letters, the same glow. I went inside. The woman who’d brought me the sign was behind the counter, pouring coffee for a man who looked like he’d been coming there for years. She saw me and smiled, and she poured a cup for me too, and I sat at the counter and drank it, and I didn’t fix anything. I just sat there, in the light of the sign I’d fixed, the sign that said Rose’s Diner, and I let myself be in a place that was broken once and was whole again.

I still have the account. I still play, sometimes, on nights when I’m in the shop, when the street is empty and the only light is the blue glow of a tube I’m testing, the hum of the transformer, the quiet of a man who spent his life fixing things that didn’t matter and is learning, finally, that the things that matter are the things you let go of. I find the Vavada slot casino that I discovered that night, and I play a few spins, a few hands, a few minutes of letting go. I don’t play to win. I play to remember that night, the night I lost twenty dollars and found something I didn’t know I was looking for. The courage to let go. The willingness to trust that the things you fix aren’t the only things that matter, that the things you break can be fixed if you’re willing to try, that the light you see in a window isn’t just a sign. It’s a promise. It’s a way of saying that something was broken and now it’s whole, that something was lost and now it’s found, that the man who spent his life fixing things that didn’t matter can learn, even now, to fix the things that do. The diner is still there. The sign is still glowing. And sometimes, on Saturday afternoons, I drive out to the town where it is, sit at the counter, drink the coffee, and let the light wash over me. I don’t tell anyone who I am. I don’t tell anyone about the sign, about the three months I spent bending the glass, about the night I stood in the street and let go. I just sit there, in the light, and let myself be in a place that was broken once and is whole again, the way we all are, if we’re lucky, if we let go, if we let the light in.