He knew where he came from.
Or thought he did.
He knew the hospital listed on his birth certificate.
The house where he grew up.
The parents who raised him.
The sister who was five years older.
The school he attended.
The street where he learned to ride a bicycle.
The backyard where his father taught him how to change brake pads.
There had never been a missing piece.
Not one he knew about.
The biker looked at the mother again.
“My birthday is the same day.”
Silence.
The mother blinked.
“What?”
“The exact same date.”
The little girl looked delighted.
“See?”
Her mother placed one hand gently on her shoulder.
The biker continued.
“What state was he raised in?”
The mother answered.
A different state.
Hundreds of miles away.
That should have ended it.
Instead, the biker felt his pulse quicken.
Because a memory had surfaced.
A sentence his mother had said when he was twenty-two.
He had been helping her clean an attic after his father died.
They found a box containing hospital papers.
He remembered asking why some pages were missing.
His mother had stared at the box for a long time.
Then she said there had been complications after his birth.
Nothing else.
He had not thought about that conversation in decades.
The biker stood.
The sudden movement made the mother step back.
“I need to make a phone call.”
The mother held the photograph against her chest.
“To who?”
“My sister.”
The biker walked outside.
The little girl tried to follow.
Her mother caught her.
“Stay here.”
The biker pushed through the glass door and stepped into the sunlight.
The air smelled like hot asphalt and gasoline.
He walked past his motorcycle.
Then back again.
His hand shook as he unlocked his phone.
He found his sister’s number.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“What happened?”
His sister always opened conversations like that.
She believed phone calls before noon meant emergencies.
The biker stared through the diner window.
Inside, the little girl had climbed back into her booth.
Her mother was crouched beside her.
“I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“About when I was born.”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Silence.
The biker straightened.
His stomach tightened.
“What?”
His sister answered carefully.
“Why are you asking?”
He closed his eyes.
That question told him more than any answer could have.
“You know something.”
Another silence.
Cars moved along the highway.
The biker gripped the phone.
“Do not lie to me.”
His sister exhaled.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do.”
“Where are you?”
“At a diner.”
“What happened?”
“There’s a little girl in there.”
His sister said nothing.