Saturday morning came in quietly.
No alarm. No oatmeal. No route to work to think about. Just grey light coming through my curtains and the particular stillness of a weekend morning that usually felt like a small gift.
It did not feel like a gift that Saturday.
I was at my kitchen window before I was fully awake, coffee in hand, looking down at the street before I had even made the conscious decision to do it. Like my body had already developed a habit my brain had not caught up with yet.
He was there.
Of course he was there.
Same spot. Same stillness. The motorcycle dark and quiet against the pale morning street like a comma in a sentence that had not finished yet. He was not looking up at my window this time. He was looking straight ahead at nothing in particular, one boot on the g
