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.

And this time, there wasn’t just one bottle.

There were three of them.

They were lined up neatly, evenly spaced, all seated in the narrow strip of shade created by the old laundry building. Condensation slowly beaded down their bodies as the day warmed up.

They had left by noon.

The next day, there were five of them.

Then seven.

No one ever saw who left them there.

But someone had obviously done it.

On the other side of the street stood a small blue house which had undoubtedly been very charming fifty years earlier, but which now looked tired, as is sometimes the case with old houses, as if it had simply lost the energy needed to retain its luster.

The porch was sagging slightly in the middle.

Wind chimes hung crookedly near the door.

And every morning, just before sunrise, a woman would go out carrying a small white cooler.

Her name was Clara Whitaker, but none of the riders knew it for a long time.

She walked slowly but with quiet determination, as if each step required deep thought. Her silver hair was usually pulled back in a loose bun at the back of her head, and she wore the same light grey cardigan almost every morning, regardless of the temperature.

Clara would cross the street.

Open the cooler.

And place the bottles one by one along the concrete edge.

She always positioned them carefully so they wouldn’t roll on the uneven surface. Sometimes she adjusted them twice, making sure each bottle stayed firmly in place.

Then she closed the cooler.

Turn around.

And he went back inside without looking at the road.