The rumble of motorcycles made him run to the window, his eyes wide as bike after bike pulled into our street.
These weren’t strangers — they were Jim’s brothers, men who’d been suspiciously absent since the funeral three months ago.
pressing his nose against the glass.
The lead biker, a massive man called Bear — Jim’s best friend since their Army days — walked up our driveway carrying something that made my heart stop.
It was Jim’s helmet — the one he’d been wearing when the drunk driver hit him.
The one the police had returned in a plastic bag.
The one I’d hidden in the attic because I couldn’t bear to throw it away.
But it looked different now. Restored. Perfect.
