Every Saturday at exactly 2 p.m., a biker would pull into the cemetery. Same spot. Same time. He’d walk straight to my wife’s grave, sit cross-legged in front of it, and stay for an hour — silent, still, head bowed.
For six months, I watched him from my car.
He never brought flowers. Never talked to anyone. Just sat there in quiet reflection. And every time he left, he placed his palm gently on the headstone before walking back to his bike.
At first, I assumed he had the wrong grave. The cemetery’s big; mistakes happen. But he kept coming back, week after week, unwavering.
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