Tank knelt beside him.
“Your mom gets to decide.”
Noah nodded.
Then Tank placed a hand on the Harley.
“We'll start it when she's ready.”
Noah looked up.
“When will that be?”
Tank glanced at the woman who had lost her husband.
“Whenever she says.”
His mother wiped her eyes.
For the first time that evening, she almost smiled.
“Thank you.”
Tank nodded.
But none of them knew yet that the motorcycle was not finished telling its story.
Because beneath the missing seat was something Evan had hidden.
And it had been waiting for Noah to find it.
Three months later, the Harley stood beneath the same lights.
But this time, Noah's mother had said yes.
The shop was full again.
Twenty-seven Iron Lanterns.
Noah.
His mother.
And Tank.
The motorcycle sat in the center of the room.
It looked different now.
Tank had finished the wiring.
The seat had been installed.
The rear fender had been completed.
The brakes had been tested.
The suspension had been adjusted.
The fuel system had been inspected twice.
Every important component had been checked.
Noah stood beside Tank.
“Is it ready?”
Tank nodded.
“Mechanically?”
“Yes.”
“Emotionally?”
Tank looked at him.
“That's not a motorcycle question.”
Noah smiled.
Tank put a hand on the handlebars.
“Your father spent six years building this.”
“I know.”
“He wanted it to be right.”
“Is it?”
Tank looked at the Harley.
“No.”
Noah frowned.
Tank smiled.
“No motorcycle is ever right enough for its owner.”
Noah laughed.
His mother stood behind them.
She had spent the past three months trying to decide whether this was a memorial or something more dangerous.
She had finally realized it was neither.
It was simply something Evan had left unfinished.
And unfinished things had a strange way of keeping the living connected to the dead.
Tank turned the key.
The instrument panel came alive.
Noah's smile disappeared.
The shop became silent.
Tank pressed the starter.
The engine turned once.
Twice.
Stopped.
Noah looked frightened.
“Is it broken?”
Tank shook his head.
“Machines don't like being watched.”
Several bikers laughed.
Tank tried again.
The engine turned.
One rotation.
Two.
Three.
Then the Harley came alive.
The V-twin thundered through the shop.
The sound shook the windows.
Tools trembled on the walls.
Someone cheered.
Noah jumped backward.
Then laughed.
He stepped forward and placed both hands against the tank.
His eyes closed.
For months, adults had told him that his father was still with him.
In his heart.
In his memories.
In photographs.
In stories.
But those things were quiet.
This wasn't.
The motorcycle vibrated beneath his hands.
It had weight.