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.
The first time I saw him, I thought he had the wrong grave. The cemetery’s big. Mistakes happen. But he came back. Again and again.
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?
