At first the sound came faintly, almost like distant thunder rolling somewhere beyond the buildings downtown. Most people ignored it because motorcycles occasionally passed through the street that ran beside the courthouse square. But the sound grew louder, deeper, more synchronized than normal traffic.
Then the first motorcycle turned the corner.
It was a large black touring bike, chrome glinting faintly in the weak winter sunlight. A man wearing a worn leather vest rode it slowly, deliberately, like someone who had no reason to hurry. A second motorcycle followed. Then a third.
Within seconds fifteen motorcycles rolled down the street together in a calm, disciplined formation that made people stop walking and stare.
No one revved their engines aggressively. No one shouted. They simply rode forward in silence except for the low rumble of the engines vibrating through the cold air.
“Why are there so many bikers here?” a woman standing near the courthouse steps whispered to her husband.
“I don’t know,” he answered quietly, watching the line of motorcycles pull toward the curb. “But it doesn’t look random.”
