Sixteen Years From Now
One day, a sixteen-year-old will roll a gleaming ’87 Harley into the sun and open a sealed letter from a man he barely remembers but somehow knows by heart. He’ll recognize the feeling more than the details—the feeling of being held while the world felt too big, the feeling of safety that sounded like an engine humming low.
Heroes don’t always wear capes. Sometimes they have road-scarred boots, a patched vest, and a chest that can turn into a lullaby. Sometimes they only have six hours in a chair while medicine runs. And sometimes that’s enough to change everything.
