My teenage son posted one photo of something he found in our attic. By midnight of that same night, the sound of motorcycles filled our quiet cul-de-sac, much to my shock.
I’m Maris, 41F, basic cul-de-sac, bored HOA, nosy neighbors included.
At 12:08 a.m., I woke up to the low rumble of motorcycle engines.
At first I thought it was in my head.
Then the vibration rolled through the walls and into my ribs.
I sat up, heart pounding.
I hate that sound.
My husband rode a bike.
He’s dead.
His name was Kael, road name Ridge. He wasn’t some idiot doing wheelies on the freeway.
He was the guy who stopped for broken-down cars, who brought food unasked when people were struggling.
He died on a ride when our son, Cai, was a baby.
After that, every engine sounded like bad news aimed at me.
I got out of bed, went to the front window, and lifted the blinds.
My quiet street was full of motorcycles.
Not one or two—rows.
Fifteen, 20, maybe more, lined up along my curb.
Engines clicked off. Kickstands dropped. Helmets came off.
Men and women in leather vests stood under the streetlights.
They weren’t talking.
They were looking at my house.
At the second-floor window.
Cai’s window.
My mouth went dry.
I grabbed my phone, thumb hovering over 911.
The doorbell rang.
One calm, normal press.
Like they figured I’d answer.
I should’ve called the cops.
Instead, I stomped downstairs in an oversized T-shirt and socks, yanked the door open, and snapped:
The man in front was huge.
Broad shoulders. Gray beard. Tired eyes.
He stood at the edge of my porch, like he wouldn’t cross it without permission.
He slowly took off his helmet and raised both hands.
“Ma’am,” he said. “We’re not here to hurt anybody.”
I gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Then move your bikes. People are sleeping.”
He didn’t argue.
He pulled his phone out and held it up.
“Your son posted something on Facebook tonight,” he said. “It… hit a lot of people hard.”
“My son doesn’t post,” I said. “He barely texts.”
He flicked his eyes past me toward the stairs, then turned the screen around.
It was a photo.
Cai’s bedspread.
Our tan carpet. And on the bed, laid out like something sacred, a leather vest.
Across the back: SECOND SHIFT RIDERS.
Below that, in white thread:
RIDGE.
My husband’s road name.
My hand tightened on the door frame.
That vest had been in a bin in the attic for over a decade, buried under Christmas decorations.
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