Every Saturday at 2 PM, a biker pulled into the cemetery and walked straight to my wife’s grave. For six months, I watched him from my car. Same time. Same ritual.
He never brought flowers. Never spoke. Just sat cross-legged beside Sarah’s headstone, head bowed, hands resting gently on the grass. One hour. Then he’d press his palm to the stone and leave.
I started to feel something I didn’t expect: anger. Who was this man? How did he know my wife? Why was he grieving her with such devotion when some of her own family hadn’t visited in months?
Sarah died fourteen months ago. Breast cancer. She was forty-three. We’d been married twenty years. Two kids. A good life. A quiet life.
She was a pediatric nurse. She volunteered at church. She drove a minivan. Her idea of rebellion was ordering a triple shot in her latte. There was nothing in her past that connected her to a biker.
But this man — this stranger — mourned her like he’d lost someone irreplaceable. I saw it in the way his shoulders trembled. In the reverence of his silence.
After three months, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out of my car and walked toward him.
He heard me coming but didn’t turn. Just kept his hand on Sarah’s headstone.
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