He drove a 32-year-old Renault 5, the sort of car that didn't just move through traffic but through time. It hummed as it moved with honest intent, paint a crisp white, trim proudly original, the kind of car that made people stop mid-stride and smile. Kids pointed. Old blokes nodded knowingly. At traffic lights strangers leaned out of windows to shout, "Had one of those!" or "My mum learned to drive in that!" The Renault 5 didn't demand attention it earned it. Our hero knew the ritual. A light clutch, a short throw, the feeling that every mile mattered. This wasn't transport; it was participation. Driving it felt like being let in on a secret everyone used to know. Then came the growl. Behind him, filling the mirror like a sharpened jawline in a tailored suit, was a BMW M3. Top of the range. Metallic paint so deep you could swim in it. Big brakes. Bigger presence. 90K worth of German engineering, prowling with intent. The Renault 5 trundled on, cheerfully unaware. The M3 stayed close. Too close. Through roundabouts, down the high street, past waving pedestrians and smiling shopkeepers. The BMW didn't overtake. It followed. Patiently. Almost eagerly. Our hero wondered if he'd done something wrong. Speed fine. Indicators used. Vibes impeccable. He turned into his street. So did the M3. He pulled up. The BMW pulled up behind him, engine burbling like it had something important to say. Door opened. Out stepped the driver sharp haircut, expensive jacket, grin wide enough to split his face in two. He jogged over, eyes locked on the Renault 5 like he'd just spotted a long-lost friend. "Great car, mate." That was it. No irony. No smugness. Just pure, unfiltered joy. "My dad had one when I was younger," the BMW man added. "Best car he ever owned. Everyone smiles when you drive it." They stood there for a moment a 90k super-saloon ticking quietly beside a 32-year-old French hatchback and both drivers smiling for exactly the same reason. Because some cars go fast. And some cars go straight to the heart.