For years, he had believed that grief was something a man endured privately.
You lowered your head.
You kept working.
You didn't make other people carry your pain.
But hearing that little girl speak about five stars was more than he could bear.
He stepped outside.
Walked toward the motorcycles.
And stood alone beside the bike that had belonged to her father.
The machine was parked at the end of the row.
Clean.
Silent.
Its owner would never ride it again.
The president placed one enormous hand against the handlebars.
Then he began crying.
A younger club member approached.
He stopped several feet away.
“Boss?”
The president didn't turn.
The younger man waited.
Finally, the older biker spoke.
“We didn't finish.”
The young rider frowned.
“What?”
“The chair.”
The president looked toward the funeral chapel.
“We told him we'd help.”
The younger rider lowered his eyes.
The president continued.
“He was supposed to be there when she tried it.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then the older man whispered, “I should've made more time.”
The younger rider shook his head.
“You didn't know.”
The president stared toward the road.
“I know.”
But the words didn't help.
He had postponed several workshop meetings because of club obligations.
He had told the father there would be time to work on the project after the holidays.
He had assumed they had years.
Now the folder sat unfinished.
And the president couldn't stop wondering whether the little girl would eventually believe her father's promise had disappeared with him.
The younger rider stood beside him.
Then said quietly, “We can still help.”
The president looked up.
The young man nodded toward the chapel.
“He wanted that chair built.”
The older biker swallowed.
“We can't just guess our way through something like that.”
“No.”
The younger man looked toward the parked motorcycles.
“But we know who he was working with. We know where the drawings are. And we know people who can help us do it properly.”
The president stared at him.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he looked back toward the funeral chapel.
Through the glass doors, he could see the little girl sitting beside her mother.
She was holding the notebook.
His chest tightened.
Finally, he nodded.
“We'll try.”
The younger rider placed a hand on his shoulder.
The president wiped his eyes.
Then whispered, “For him.”