Worn.
Faded.
Carefully folded.
“This was your dad’s,” he said quietly. “He asked us to keep it safe.”
Ethan took it with both hands, holding it like something fragile.
“I miss him,” he said suddenly. No warning. Just truth.
The room went quiet.
The biker leaned forward. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We do too.”
The Question No One Escapes
Ethan looked up. “Does it ever stop hurting?”
The biker thought for a long moment.
“No,” he said. “But it changes. It stops hurting alone.”
Ethan nodded slowly, like that answer fit somewhere deep inside him.
One of the bikers noticed Ethan’s smooth head and gently tapped his own shaved scalp.
“Hey,” he said. “You and me? Same haircut.”
Ethan smiled. “Yours looks better.”
“Nah,” the biker replied. “You wear it better.”
Laughter as Medicine You Can’t Prescribe
They played games. Made up a secret biker handshake. One biker pretended to lose an arm-wrestling match on purpose and acted dramatically defeated, clutching his arm like it was the end of the world.
For a little while, cancer didn’t get the whole room.
When visiting hours ended, no one rushed to leave.
The lead biker stood and placed a hand over his heart.
“Your dad was one of the best men we knew,” he said. “And you? You’re doing him proud.”
Ethan hugged him carefully, but with strength no one expected.
A Promise That Meant Everything
As they headed for the door, Ethan called out, “Hey!”
They turned.
“Can you come back?” he asked.
The biker smiled. “Yeah, kid. We’ll be back.”
