She thought burying her husband would be the hardest part. Then the motorcycles started roaring outside the church.

Two days earlier, after filing the police report, Maria told me she just wanted her husband’s Harley back. It was the one thing he babied more than himself, the bike he polished every Sunday like it was holy. But when she mentioned it was missing, the cops shrugged.

At the funeral, when the doors opened and ten leather-clad men marched in, every head turned. People whispered that they must’ve been his old riding buddies, come to pay respects. But the way they scanned the room wasn’t grief—it was suspicion.

One of them, tall with a scar running down his jaw, walked straight to the coffin and laid something on top.

Maria froze.

Because what he left there wasn’t flowers.

It was the missing motorcycle key.

At first, nobody knew what to say. A hush fell over the chapel as the man turned around and locked eyes with Maria. He gave a single nod, not one of comfort, but of confirmation—like a job had just been finished. Then, without another word, the bikers turned on their heels and marched back out, their heavy boots echoing off the wooden floors.

The silence held for a moment longer before someone whispered, “Was that… the key?”

Maria didn’t answer. She just walked forward, trembling, and picked it up. It was the same worn key that had hung from her husband’s Harley keychain—the one with the little leather tassel and the initials “G.M.” burned into it. No doubt about it. That was George’s key.

I helped her sit down. She kept turning the key over in her hands, like it would explain itself if she looked long enough.

That night, after most people had left the repast, Maria sat at her kitchen table with a glass of sherry, staring into space.