The biker looked at her.

Then looked at the wolf patch on his vest.

Then back at the girl.

For a second—

his face didn’t change.

But his eyes did.

“Rose?”

he asked quietly.

The girl nodded.

The younger man near the counter suddenly stood.

Too fast.

Too nervous.

“Come on,” he said quickly.

“She’s confused.”

The girl immediately stepped behind the biker.

Held the edge of his leather vest tightly.

The biker stayed seated.

Calm.

But something in his face had hardened.

“How do you know Rose?”

The little girl looked up.

“She’s my mom.”

Silence.

The biker slowly stood.

Huge.

Still.

His chair slid quietly across the diner floor.

Nobody spoke.

Then he asked the question nobody expected.

“Does your mom still have a scar…”

He pointed near his own wrist.

“…right here?”

The girl blinked.

Then nodded.

The younger man immediately moved.

“Okay, enough.”

But the biker turned.

One look.

The man stopped.

The biker knelt beside the girl.

“What did your mother tell you?”

The girl swallowed.

Looked around.

Then whispered:

“She said…”

A pause.

“…if I ever got lost…”

“…find the man with the wolf.”

The biker closed his eyes.

For just a second.

Because fifteen years ago—

there was only one person who used to say that.

Rose.

Back then—

before the diner.

Before the roads.

Before disappearing.

She used to ride with their motorcycle club.

And she always laughed that if life ever got bad—

the wolves would find each other.

The biker opened his eyes.

“Where is your mom?”

The girl looked down.

Then reached into the pocket of her oversized hoodie.

Pulled out something folded.

A note.

Old.

Soft from being opened too many times.

The biker unfolded it.

His hands slowly stopped moving.

Short handwriting.

One sentence.

If she finds you, tell her I’m sorry I never came back.

The biker stared.

Turned the paper over.

Address.

Date.

Today.

His breathing changed.

He looked at the girl.

She smiled softly.

“She said…”

A pause.

“…you’d probably still be angry.”

The biker laughed once.

Quietly.

Looked away.

Then whispered—

“Not angry.”

He looked toward the diner door.

Held the note.

Took the girl’s hand.

And said—

“Come on.”

The younger man suddenly stepped forward.

Too quickly.

And for the first time—

the biker realized—

the man wasn’t afraid of him.

He was afraid they would reach Rose first.