Days passed, and the whispers around town grew louder.
Everyone seemed to have an opinion, though few had real details.
I overheard snippets at the diner, customers leaning over their plates to exchange theories.
“Who was he, really?”
“Why did the bikers care so much?”
I tried not to listen, keeping my focus on refilling coffee cups and clearing crumbs.
But the questions lingered, hovering like the smell of bacon grease that clung to the diner’s air.
One afternoon, as I was closing up, the doorbell chimed softly.
It was the funeral director.
“Do you have a moment?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
