This is sacred ground. Somewhere she doesn't have to be anyone of note.

The door to the fourth garage bay is hidden. None know where it is, but her and her mother. Not even Papa had known where it was. He was not allowed in here.

To her mother, the old war machine was something of a challenge, a comfort in her last days. She had hoped to finish the tank before her end. That hope fell through. It still lies partially dismantled in that hidden bay, but her daughter and protege still hasn't been able to finish it.

It's not that she doesn't know how. It's that her time is spent doing other things. It is on Famine land that the Warhorses are brought to rest. Famine families have always produced the mechanic, and their knowledge of the antiquated mecha horses is what is needed most.

Sometimes, maintenance on the heirloom rides takes very little time.
Sometimes, it takes days.
It consumes what little time she has, and cuts out the time she would need to work on the old tank in her private garage.

Famines have always been the emotionless ones, their faces flat and betraying very little. Most people take their apathy as rude detachment. It makes it hard to find acquaintances outside the four families.

Even though her face betrays nothing, Famine still feels. Usually, it is a depressive loneliness. She finds the cure to it in her garage. Through the hidden door, to the silent tank.

This is her space. Her quiet room. The place where she ceases to be and returns to a brief state of humanity, be it working on the old war beast or sleeping on it.
This is sacred ground.