PART 2: The River Returns What Time Tried to Take Away
Water dripped steadily from the rusted frame, each drop hitting the dirt like a slow clock ticking backward.
The biker didn’t move right away.
He stayed crouched beside the bike, one hand still gripping the handlebar as if letting go might send it back into the river—and take something else with it.
The boys who had been laughing moments ago were silent now.
Not just quiet.
Still.
The smallest boy stepped closer, hesitant but pulled by something stronger than fear.
“That’s… that’s my dad’s,” he said again, softer this time, like saying it too loud might break it.
The biker’s shoulders tightened slightly.
He ran his thumb across the faded marking on the frame, clearing away mud and river grime. Underneath, barely visible, were scratched initials.
Old.
Worn.
But still there.
His voice came out low, almost lost in the sound of the river.
“Your dad’s name…” he paused, then swallowed. “What is it?”
The boy looked confused at the question, but answered anyway.
“Daniel,” he said. “Daniel Hayes.”
The biker closed his eyes for just a second.
Not long.
Just enough for something heavy to settle into place.
When he opened them again, they weren’t the same.
The distance in them was gone.
Replaced by recognition.
He slowly sat back on his heels, water soaking into the dirt beneath him.
“I used to ride with a Daniel,” he said quietly.
The words didn’t land all at once.
The boy blinked. “You knew him?”
The biker nodded, still staring at the bike like it was speaking to him.
“Yeah,” he said. “A long time ago.”
The river moved gently behind them, like it had been holding onto this moment, waiting for it to surface.
The boy took another step forward.
“Then you know where he is?” he asked, hope breaking through too fast, too sharp.
The biker didn’t answer immediately.
That silence said more than words.
The boy’s expression shifted. Not fully understanding, but feeling enough to know the answer wasn’t simple.
“He said he’d come back,” the boy whispered.
The biker’s jaw tightened.
“He wanted to,” he replied.
That was the truth.
Just not the whole of it.
Behind them, one of the older boys shuffled his feet, guilt creeping in where laughter had been. Another looked away entirely.
No one interrupted.
No one dared.
The biker finally stood, slower this time, like the weight of the soaked machine had transferred somewhere deeper.
He looked down at the boy.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Eli,” the boy said.
The biker nodded once.
“Eli… your dad didn’t leave that bike behind because he didn’t care.”
Eli’s hands clenched slightly. “Then why was it in the river?”
A fair question.
A hard one.
The biker exhaled, glancing back at the water.
“Because sometimes things go wrong,” he said. “And when they do… people don’t always get to finish what they started.”
Eli didn’t respond.
But he didn’t look away either.
The biker stepped closer to the bike again, lifting it upright with effort. It creaked, rust grinding softly, but it held.
“Your dad loved this thing,” he added. “Took care of it like it mattered.”
Eli’s voice came small.
“It’s broken now.”
The biker shook his head.
“No,” he said firmly. “It’s not broken.”
He looked at Eli directly.
“It’s waiting.”
That word landed differently.
Not like an excuse.
Like a possibility.
Eli’s eyes flickered toward the bike, then back to the man standing in front of him.
“Waiting for what?”
The biker wiped water from his hands, leaving streaks of dirt behind.
“For someone to not give up on it,” he said.
A long pause followed.
Then Eli asked, barely above a whisper:
“Can it be fixed?”
The biker looked at the bike.
At the rust.
At the years it had spent buried under water and silence.
Then back at the boy.
“Yeah,” he said.
Not easily.
Not quickly.
But with certainty.
“Yeah… it can.”
Behind them, the river kept moving, carrying away what it no longer needed to hold.
And on the bank, something that had been lost for a long time finally felt like it had a way back.
Our Facebook Group
Join Our Group
