A Biker Showed Up At My Wife’s Grave Every Week And I Had No Idea Who He Was

Every Saturday at 2 PM, a biker pulled into the cemetery and walked straight to my wife’s grave. For six months, I watched him from my car. Same time. Same ritual.

He never brought flowers. Never spoke. Just sat cross-legged beside Sarah’s headstone, head bowed, hands resting gently on the grass. One hour. Then he’d press his palm to the stone and leave.

The first time I saw him, I thought he had the wrong grave. The cemetery’s big. Mistakes happen. But he came back. Again and again. Continue reading…