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Every Saturday at precisely 2 p.m., a man on a motorcycle rode into the cemetery and went straight to my wife’s grave. At first, I assumed it was coincidence — maybe he was visiting someone nearby. But week after week, month after month, he returned. No flowers. No words. Just silence.
He always sat cross-legged beside her headstone, hands on the grass, head bowed. After an hour, he would press his palm gently to the stone, rise, and disappear down the winding road.
I began watching from my car, hidden behind the tall pines, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and dread. Who was he? Why her?
Sarah had been gone fourteen months. Breast cancer took her at forty-three. We were married twenty years, raising kids and living a quiet life shaped by her work as a pediatric nurse. She was an ordinary kind of miracle — gentle, hopeful, steady.
But nothing about her past connected to a tattooed biker with a stare full of grief. Yet every Saturday, he returned, mourning as if he had lost everything.
