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.

Something was wrong.

Then one morning, the bottles didn’t appear.

The cyclists slowed down as they passed the empty edge.

Some turned back.

At noon, there was still nothing.

Marcus arrived on horseback.

The little blue house seemed calm.

Too quiet.

He went up the steps of the porch and knocked.

No response.

He waited.

There was another strike.

Still nothing.

As he turned to leave, the door opened a crack.

Clara stayed there, wrapped in a blanket despite the heat.

Her face appeared pale, almost translucent in the morning light.

“I was going to bring them,” she said quickly, before he could even speak.

“I… couldn’t do it today.”

Marcus felt something twist inside his chest.

” How are you ? “

She hesitated.

A long silence settled between them.

Then she sighed.

And she said something that she had clearly been keeping to herself for a long time.