Sarah laughed.
“Fair.”
She looked at him.
“Then after it started, everybody acted like keeping it was obviously right.”
“But it wasn't.”
“No.”
She smiled sadly.
“If that insurance check had not come through, I might have sold it later anyway.”
Eli looked at the motorcycle.
He expected that thought to hurt.
It did not.
“Would've been okay.”
Sarah looked surprised.
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a motorcycle.”
She stared.
Then laughed.
“Mason would hit you.”
“No.”
“He'd make a speech.”
“Worse.”
They smiled.
Sarah touched the tank.
“Daniel loved this thing.”
“I know.”
“But he loved you more.”
Eli looked at her.
She continued.
“Mason spent half his life trying to make sure you understood that.”
“I do.”
“Good.”
Then Sophie walked over.
“Grandma.”
“Yes?”
“Dad says I can't paint it purple.”
Sarah immediately answered:
“You absolutely can.”
Eli threw both hands up.
“Hannah has poisoned this family.”
Everyone laughed.
The motorcycle stayed black.
For now.
Eventually Sophie inherited it.
Eli was sixty-eight.
His hands had begun to shake slightly.
Not enough to stop him working.
Enough that riding a heavy vintage cruiser felt less enjoyable than it once had.
He called Sophie.
“Come over.”
She arrived expecting dinner.
Instead, the motorcycle waited uncovered.
“What?”
Eli held out the keys.
She stared.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Dad.”
“You want it?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then.”
He placed the keys in her palm.
Sophie became emotional instantly.
“I thought you'd keep it forever.”
“So did I.”
“What changed?”
Eli smiled.
She saw it.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Do not use the quote on me.”
He laughed.
“Fine.”
She looked at the motorcycle.
“I'm not painting it purple.”
Eli pretended relief.
“Thank God.”
“Maybe the pinstripe.”
“Sophie.”
She smiled.
Then hugged him.
Eli closed his eyes.
He thought of four-year-old himself.
Tan coveralls.
Blue mark.
Mason's suit.
Sarah crying.
Victor holding papers.
So much had been attached to this machine.
Money.
Grief.
Pride.
Memory.
Family.
Deception.
Rescue.
He finally understood Daniel’s original relationship with it.
The old man’s bike.
Not because ownership mattered.
Because stories stuck to objects.
Sometimes too tightly.
He whispered:
“It’s yours.”
Sophie stepped back.
“You sure?”