The biker leader held the tiny metal motorcycle in his hand. He looked at it like it carried a memory he had tried to forget.
“This design…” he said quietly. “I know this.”
He looked up, his face tense and shaken.
The boy stepped back slightly, afraid.
“My dad built it for you,” the boy said softly.
The other bikers exchanged uneasy looks. No one laughed anymore.
The leader’s hand tightened around the metal bike.
“Your father…” he said slowly, “was part of us.”
The boy froze, confused and scared.
There was a long silence.
Then the boy whispered, almost breaking completely:
“Then why didn’t he come home?”
The leader said nothing.
The yard stayed silent.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like just a sunny afternoon anymore.
