The cemetery was always coldest right around two in the afternoon, a time when the sun hung just low enough to cast long, skeletal shadows across the rows of weathered granite. For six months, I had become a fixture of this place, sitting in my idling sedan with the heater blasting, though the chill I felt had nothing to do with the weather. I was there to visit Sarah, my wife of twelve years, who had been taken by a sudden, aggressive illness that left me drifting in a sea of unanswered questions and profound silence. But lately, I wasn’t just there for Sarah. I was there to watch the man on the black motorcycle.
He was as predictable as the tides. Every Saturday, at exactly 2:00 PM, the low rumble of a heavy engine would vibrate through the cemetery gates. He always parked under the same ancient, sprawling maple tree, its branches reaching out like gnarled fingers. He was a large man, clad in worn leather and heavy boots, his face obscured by a matte black helmet until he came to a complete stop. He would dismount with a heavy, practiced grace, remove his gear, and walk with a singular focus toward Sarah’s headstone.
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