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.
I nodded, surprised by his visit.
We sat at the counter, the overhead lights casting shadows across his face.
“There’s something about the service that’s been bothering me,” he confessed.
His revelation was unexpected, a crack in his otherwise composed demeanor.
“Why did you allow the bikers to take charge?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound.
“It was either them or no one,” he said simply.
“The man had no family, no one to claim him.”
The weight of his words settled between us, heavy and unyielding.
I understood now the burden he carried, the decisions made in silence.
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