He had never opened it again.
He did now.
The paper inside was folded twice.
He knew every line.
Still, he read.
If you are reading this because I’m gone, I need you to listen before you do something stupid.
The gray-bearded biker almost laughed.
The dead man knew him well.
Do not make my boy into one of us because you miss me.
Do not give him a motorcycle because you think blood decides what somebody becomes.
Do not tell him the road is in his blood.
That’s nonsense old men say when they want children to repeat their mistakes.
The gray-bearded biker swallowed.
Then the next part.
But if he is ever scared enough that his mother can’t reach him, and if he asks for the sound, you bring it.
His hand tightened around the page.
Not because motorcycles are magic.
Because he used to fall asleep against my chest in the garage while you idiots revved engines outside.
Because the sound scared him at first, then he learned it meant people he knew were near.
If I’m not there and he ever needs to feel surrounded, surround him.
The gray-bearded biker stopped reading.
Four years earlier, that sentence had made him angry.
It still did.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it had been left to him.
The letter continued.
One more thing.
Inside my vest is the small patch from my first road crew.
If my son ever needs proof that I had people before he remembers me, give it to him.
Tell him it was never about the motorcycles.
It was about not leaving somebody alone on the side of the road.
At the bottom:
If he asks whether I was afraid of dying, tell him yes.
Don’t lie because he’s a kid.
Tell him I was terrified.
Tell him I loved him anyway.
The gray-bearded biker folded the letter.
Then he cried.
Not loudly.
No witness.
No performance.
A large man in an empty workshop with both forearms resting on his knees and tears disappearing into a beard.
After several minutes, he pulled out his phone.
He opened a group message that had been quiet since Christmas.
There were 217 people in it.
Some rode every weekend.
Some had not touched a motorcycle in years.
Some belonged to the original club.
Others were friends.
Mechanics.
Veterans of long roads.
Nurses.
Construction workers.
Retired firefighters.
A teacher.
A dentist everybody mocked for polishing his motorcycle more than riding it.
The gray-bearded biker typed:
Hospital. Fifth floor. Sunrise request. Son of one of ours. He asked for one bike.