Every summer, she discreetly left fresh water for passing motorcyclists, a small act of kindness that no one questioned. It was only later that the heartbreaking reason for this ritual was discovered; by then, it was too late for anyone to react.

At first, nobody touched it.

The cyclists slowed slightly as they passed, glancing over the curb, exchanging curious looks through their tinted visors, but no one stopped. The presence of a free bottle of water, alone in the shade, aroused suspicion.

It felt like kindness.

But the kindness of strangers often came with complications.

It wasn’t until late in the morning that someone finally stopped.

The motorcyclist was a young man – probably no more than twenty-two years old – with a matte black helmet and a motorcycle that was visibly older than him. He parked a few meters away, turned off the engine, and approached slowly, as if he were approaching a fragile object.

He picked up the bottle.

He turned it over in his hand.

I checked the seal.

He stood there for a moment, wondering, glancing around him in the deserted street.

Then he opened the cap by turning it.

The cracking of the seal was clear and unmistakable.

He took a cautious sip.

Then a longer one.

And suddenly, the tension dissipated from his shoulders.

The water was freezing.

Real.

And after several hours of driving in 32-degree heat, it was like the best thing he had tasted in weeks.

The news spread faster than expected.

The next morning, cyclists passing along Maple Avenue were already looking towards the curb.