Every Saturday at exactly two in the afternoon, the same motorcycle entered the cemetery and stopped beneath an old maple tree. The rider always wore a worn leather jacket, black boots, and a helmet he carefully left on the seat. Then he walked directly to my wife Sarah’s grave. For six months, I watched him from my car. He never brought flowers or spoke aloud. He simply sat beside her headstone for exactly one hour, his head bowed and his hands resting on the grass. Before leaving, he always placed one hand against the marble and closed his eyes. I knew that trembling breath. It belonged to someone who missed Sarah deeply.
At first, I convinced myself he had the wrong grave. But he returned every Saturday. Soon curiosity became anger. Who was he? How had he known my wife? Why did he grieve her more faithfully than some of her own relatives? One Saturday, I finally stepped from my car and walked toward him.
