Grandchildren.
Family.
Then the child.
“No.”
“People are here.”
The boy looked around.
“You know what I mean.”
Noah smiled.
“Yes.”
Then:
“That’s why people tell stories.”
The child shook the bell lightly.
A soft ring.
Noah closed his eyes.
The sound had changed across his life.
At eight:
Recognition.
Fear.
At fourteen:
Questions.
At eighteen:
Memory.
At thirty:
Family.
At fifty:
Grief.
At ninety:
Home.
He opened his eyes.
The boy asked:
“Are you scared to die?”
Noah’s daughter called from the doorway:
“You cannot ask Grandpa that!”
Noah lifted one hand.
“It’s okay.”
He looked at the child.
“Yes.”
The boy seemed surprised.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I like being here.”
The child thought.
“Do you think you’ll see your mom and dad?”
Noah looked toward the bells.
“I don’t know.”
The child frowned.
“That’s not a good answer.”
“It’s the most honest one.”
Noah smiled.
“I hope so.”
The boy nodded.
“Me too.”
Then he asked:
“If you do, what will you say?”
Noah laughed softly.
“I’ll probably ask my dad why he made everything so complicated.”
The family laughed.
Noah continued.
“Then I’ll hug him.”
He touched Sarah’s bell.
“I’ll tell my mom she was right about motorcycles.”
His daughter shouted:
“She was!”
Noah smiled.
“And Cole?”
The boy asked.
Noah looked toward the old blue bike.
“I’ll tell him he yelled too much.”
The child laughed.
Noah’s breathing became tired.
His daughter moved closer.
“You need to rest.”
Noah nodded.
Before going inside, he looked at the motorcycle one more time.
“Leave the bells.”
“On the bike?”
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“Both.”
His daughter nodded.
Noah died months later.
Not dramatically.
His family nearby.
No missing person report.
No unanswered phone.
No false death certificate.
No black SUV.
No steel door.
Everyone knew where he was.
Everyone knew what had happened.
That mattered more than anyone outside the family could understand.
After the funeral, Noah’s daughter stood in the garage.
The blue motorcycle waited.
Michael’s bell.
Sarah’s bell.
She held a third one.
New brass.
Small.
Engraved underneath:
N.B.
Noah Bennett.
Her son looked over.
“You’re adding Grandpa?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ask?”
“No.”
“He said leave the bells.”
“I’m leaving them.”
She crouched.
Attached Noah’s beside the others.
Three bells.
They struck lightly together.
Her son smiled.
“Do you believe they protect the bike?”
“No.”
“Then why add one?”
She looked toward him.
“Because somebody should want Grandpa to come home too.”
The boy’s expression softened.
“But he can’t.”