For six months, I watched him from my car. Every Saturday at 2 PM, the same biker on the same Harley would ride into the cemetery, park carefully beneath the old oak tree, and walk toward my wife Sarah’s headstone. He never brought flowers or gifts, never made dramatic gestures, never seemed interested in being seen. He simply sat cross-legged beside the grave, bowed his head, and remained there for exactly one hour. Sometimes I saw his shoulders tremble, sometimes he rested his hand gently on the stone before leaving.
At first, I told myself he was confused, that he must have mistaken Sarah’s grave for someone else’s. But the weeks became months, and the quiet routine never changed. I should have been grateful that someone cared so deeply. Instead, the mystery built a knot of worry and frustration inside me. Sarah and I had shared twenty years together—two kids, the kind of life made up of school events, church picnics, and late-night cups of tea. She was a pediatric nurse who kept a warm smile in her pocket and compassion in her voice. Nothing about her past suggested she had any connection to a man like him.
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