At five in the morning, half-awake and reaching for the newspaper, I nearly screamed when I realized a large biker was asleep against my front door. He was bruised, bleeding, and barely breathing, his leather vest torn and his gray beard stained dark. Panic hit me instantly—until I noticed a folded note clutched in his hand, addressed to me by name with one urgent plea: please read before calling the police. My fear froze into something else entirely as I opened it and saw my late son’s name written inside.
The note explained that the man, a retired staff sergeant named Thomas Morrison, had served with my son David overseas and had made him a promise—one it took twelve years to keep. David had died in combat, and I had been told it was instant and painless. But as Thomas slowly woke and spoke through obvious pain, he told me the truth: David lived for hours, calm and unafraid, talking about me the entire time. Thomas had held him, comforted him, and carried a letter David insisted be delivered only by hand.
