After the service, I found my beloved bike tipped over and defaced. The same neighbors who pretended to care stood around, many looking unsurprised. I saw Howard across the lot, smirking.
Despite the damage, I rode home. I needed the road—the freedom, the noise, the memories.
Later, Howard approached me at the reception. “Maybe it’s time to consider something more fitting for the neighborhood,” he said.
I looked him dead in the eye. “Someone here is a coward who vandalized my bike during my wife’s funeral. And I always find out who’s done me wrong.”