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.

He had disappeared in the morning.

But no one ever saw Clara read it.

In the end, curiosity won out.

One afternoon, a cyclist named Marcus Delgado decided he had to say something.

Marcus had been riding motorcycles for almost thirty years and displayed the quiet confidence of someone who had spent most of his adult life on the road. His beard had turned almost entirely grey and his leather vest bore faded patches, souvenirs of places most people had only seen on maps.

He parked his bike on the other side of the street and waited.

Just before sunrise the next morning, Clara went out with her cooler.

Marcus approached her slowly so as not to frighten her.

“Madam,” he said softly.

She stopped, looking up.

Her eyes were tired but kind.

“Yes?”

Marcus pointed to the bottles she was placing on the edge.

“I just wanted to thank you.”

Clara blinked once, as if surprised by this gratitude.