I’m Maris, 41F, living a quiet life with nosy neighbors in a cul-de-sac.
At 12:08 a.m., motorcycle engines rumbled outside. I hated that sound. My husband, Kael—road name Ridge—rode a bike. He’s dead. Every engine since has felt like bad news.
I looked outside. My street was lined with bikes. Rows of riders stared at my house. The doorbell rang.
A huge man, gray-bearded, took off his helmet and said, “We’re not here to hurt anyone.” He showed a photo my son, Cai, had posted: Ridge’s old leather vest, patched SECOND SHIFT RIDERS.
Cai admitted he’d found the vest in the attic and posted it to ask if anyone remembered Ridge. The riders—Ridge’s old friends—had come because of him.
Two of them came inside. Gearbox explained they rode with Ridge and had been trying to find us. Tank placed a lockbox on the table. Inside were letters Ridge wrote for Cai at ages 10, 13, and 16. Cai opened the 16-year letter.
“He said my laugh was his favorite sound… ‘Your mom might hate bikes someday. If she does, it’s because she loved me so much losing me made everything loud.’”
Cai and I cried together. The riders gave him a small patch: RIDE WITH HEART—not to recruit him, just a reminder of his father.
By morning, the bikes were gone. Cai read the letters, asked questions, and laughed through tears. That night, when a single motorcycle passed, my shoulders tensed—but underneath, it wasn’t just grief anymore.