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.

She never waved.

He never spoke.

I never waited.

Gradually, the riders gave him a nickname.

“The Lady of the Water.”

It was not a derogatory remark.

In reality, within the cycling community, it has become a kind of discreet symbol of respect.

The summer walks were strenuous.

And these chilled bottles had become an event that people eagerly awaited.

By mid-July, the heat had become almost unbearable.

The heat was so intense that it made the horizon above the road sparkle and turned traffic lights into long, exhausting pauses under a relentless sun.

The motorcycles had difficulty making their way through.

People too.

But every morning, without fail, the bottles appeared.

Some motorcyclists started leaving small folded bills under their shoes.

They assumed that whoever was supplying the water would appreciate help to cover the costs.

But every time someone came back the next day, the money was gone.

At first, it seemed normal.

Then something strange happened.

One morning, the money was still there.

Intact.

The bottles had disappeared — the cyclists had taken them — but the folded banknotes were still lying on the edge.

A few days later, someone left a thank you note.

A simple piece of paper held in place by a small stone.