My Eight-Year-Old Son Walked Into a Biker Rally And Handed Me A Faded Photograph...
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Chapter 11 / 20
When I stepped out of the courthouse, the afternoon sun was dipping behind the pine-covered ridge west of town, throwing long, gray shadows across the empty street. The air was biting cold, carrying the sharp scent of woodsmoke from the chimneys along Maple Street.
My bike was parked at the curb, its chrome catching the last pale light of the day. As I walked toward it, I reached into my pocket and touched the folded paper Leo had left on the workbench—the old note from twenty years ago, carrying my own handwriting back to me like a ghost coming home.
I climbed onto the saddle, kicked the starter until the engine caught with a deep, familiar roar that rattled the storefront windows, and pointed the front wheel toward home.
