Inside the first car behind the hearse sat Nathan Whitaker, staring forward without truly seeing anything. His cousin, Emily Whitaker, had been pronounced dead after a hiking accident two days earlier. The official explanation had been simple: a fall, severe head trauma, immediate death. Closed casket recommended due to injuries. Everything efficient. Everything final.
Too final, Nathan had thought, though he never said it aloud.
The hearse rolled steadily ahead, black paint reflecting endless sky. White roses rested beside the coffin inside, their petals trembling slightly whenever the vehicle crossed uneven pavement.
Then came the sound that didn’t belong.
An engine, loud and aggressive, echoing from a side street.
Before anyone could react, a black Indian motorcycle burst into view and slid sideways across the road directly in front of the hearse. Tires screamed against asphalt, forcing the driver to slam the brakes. The procession jolted to a halt, cars stopping one after another like dominoes.
The rider stepped off immediately.
