My teenage son posted one photo of something he found in our attic. By midnight of that same night, the sound of motorcycles filled our quiet cul-de-sac, much to my shock.I’m Maris, 41F, basic cul-de-sac, bored HOA, nosy neighbors included.At 12:08 a.m., I woke up to the low rumble of motorcycle engines.At first I thought it was in my head.Then the vibration rolled through the walls and into my ribs.I sat up, heart pounding.I hate that sound.My husband rode a bike.He’s dead.His name was Kael, road name Ridge. He wasn’t some idiot doing wheelies on the freeway. He was the guy who stopped for broken-down cars, who brought food unasked when people were struggling.

He died on a ride when our son, Cai, was a baby.After that, every engine sounded like bad news aimed at me.I got out of bed, went to the front window, and lifted the blinds.My quiet street was full of motorcycles.Not one or two—rows.Fifteen, 20, maybe more, lined up along my curb.Engines clicked off. Kickstands dropped. Helmets came off.Men and women in leather vests stood under the streetlights.They weren’t talking.hey were looking at my house.At the second-floor window.Cai’s window.My mouth went dry.I grabbed my phone, thumb hovering over 911.The doorbell rang.One calm, normal press.