Then she would pass four houses down.
That was where the motorcycle shop stood.
It had existed before most of the newer houses were built.
A squat brick building with two wide garage doors.
No bright sign.
No polished showroom.
Only a faded metal plaque identifying it as a custom motorcycle workshop.
Most neighborhood parents disliked it.
Not because anything bad had ever happened there.
Because bikers came and went.
Big men.
Leather vests.
Tattoos.
Loud engines.
Sometimes ten motorcycles would line the curb at once.
The shop owner was the person everyone noticed most.
A massive white American man in his mid-fifties.
Shaved head.
Gray beard reaching nearly to his chest.
Tattooed arms.
Heavy black boots.
Faded sleeveless work vest.
He rarely smiled.
Rarely spoke to neighbors.
Every morning he opened the shop at seven.
Every evening he shut it around six.
He lived in a small apartment built above the rear workshop.
No wife anyone saw.
No children.
No visitors except riders and customers.
The girl’s grandmother saw him once while visiting.
“That man looks dangerous.”
The mother glanced through the window.
The gray-bearded biker was unloading a tire from a truck.
“He repairs motorcycles.”
“That does not make him less dangerous.”
“He waved at the mailman yesterday.”
“Serial killers probably receive mail too.”
“Mom.”
“I’m just saying.”
The girl overheard everything.
The next afternoon she deliberately rode her cardboard motorcycle past the biker’s shop slower than usual.
The gray-bearded man stood inside the garage.
He saw her.
She waved.
Nothing.
He simply stared.
The next day she waved again.
Nothing.
Third day.
Nothing.
After one week, the mother noticed.
“He never waves back.”
The girl shrugged.
“Maybe he doesn’t wave.”
“He has hands.”
“Maybe they’re busy.”
“They’re currently in his pockets.”
The girl kept riding.
Every afternoon.
Rain stopped her.
Snow eventually stopped her.
Otherwise, four-thirty.
Cardboard motorcycle.
Pink helmet.
Vroom.
The gray-bearded biker watched.
He never waved.
Never smiled.
But the mother began noticing something strange.
If the girl passed while the biker was working deeper inside the garage, he came toward the doorway.
If another motorcycle blocked his view, he moved.
Once, the girl’s cardboard chain guard fell off directly in front of the shop.
She stopped.
Climbed down.
Picked it up.
The gray-bearded biker took two steps out.