The Mysterious Visitor
Every Saturday at exactly 2 p.m., a man on a motorcycle would pull into the cemetery and head straight for my wife’s grave.
At first, I thought it was a coincidence — maybe he’d lost someone nearby. But week after week, month after month, he came back. Always the same. No flowers. No words. Just silence.
I began watching him from my car, hidden behind the row of old pines. The quiet devotion unsettled me. Who was this man? Why did he come here every week — to her?
Sarah had been gone fourteen months. Breast cancer took her at forty-three. We’d been married twenty years — a good, simple life, built around our kids and her work as a pediatric nurse.
She was the most ordinary miracle I ever knew — the kind of woman who saw goodness in everything.
But nothing about her connected to a leather-clad biker with tattooed arms and steel in his eyes.
And yet, there he was. Every Saturday. Grieving like he’d lost the love of his life.
