Outside the window, the night hung heavy and silent. I knew there were some answers I had to track down myself.
That very night, I hopped on the battle bike my dad had kept as a prized treasure and headed for the hills behind the old family home. I pulled up in front of the long-abandoned warehouse. I slipped the key Grandpa had left me into the rusted lock.
Creak. The door swung open. A cloud of dust billowed straight out at me.
When the dust cleared and my vision sharpened, I spotted a motorcycle covered with a heavy oilcloth. I peeled the oilcloth back. It was a custom-built motorcycle, blazing bright red all over, popped into view.
Its lines were sleek and sharp, every last detail oozing the meticulous craftsmanship of hand-built bikes from the last century. This was Grandpa's old
