"I don't want him to cry."
The mother looked toward him.
"Why?"
The boy shrugged.
"Because then I feel like I have to make him happy."
She closed her eyes for a moment.
He had understood something important.
The old biker's guilt had become visible during the hospital confession.
And the child had felt responsible for comforting him.
The mother leaned closer.
"That's not your job."
The boy looked up.
"Really?"
She shook her head.
"Really."
He thought about it.
Then asked, "Can I be mad?"
The mother nodded.
"Yes."
"Even if I want to see him?"
"Yes."
The boy smiled faintly.
Then returned to his book.
For the mother, that conversation was a sign of progress.
He was beginning to understand that his feelings didn't have to be simple.
He could love someone.
Miss them.
Feel angry.
And decide what contact felt right.
All at the same time.
The old biker received permission for a brief visit in early spring.
The meeting was arranged with the mother's knowledge and with appropriate support.
It took place in a quiet room at the children's rehabilitation center.
The biker arrived wearing a plain blue shirt and dark trousers.
No leather vest.
No motorcycle boots.
And no objects connected to the fire.
He looked different.
Older.
Less imposing.
His forehead had healed, although a faint mark remained near his hairline.
He carried a small paper bag containing a book about birds.
The boy had recently developed an interest in the birds visiting the rental house's backyard.
The biker remembered.
But he didn't assume the child wanted a present.
He placed the bag beside his chair and waited.
When the boy entered with his mother, he stopped.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then the biker smiled gently.
"Hey, little man."
The child looked toward him.
"Hi."
The old man remained seated.
He didn't rush forward.
Didn't open his arms.
And didn't tell the boy how much he'd missed him.
He simply waited.
The child sat beside his mother.
For a few minutes, they talked about ordinary things.
School.
The stuffed dog.
The new rental house.
And the bird feeder outside the kitchen window.
Then the boy looked toward the old man.
"Did you fix the motorcycle?"
The biker took a slow breath.
"No."
The child nodded.
"Why?"