, on the other hand, had always avoided the subject — precisely because I knew that this iron beast had taken a life.

Now everything became clear. He was restoring that very motorcycle. At night, in secret from me. And he hadn’t told me, because he knew: I wouldn’t approve. I would be afraid.

I stood there, gripping the door handle, unable to look away. My heart was uneasy, but at the same time I felt bitterness and… compassion. He wasn’t doing it for the machine. He was trying to bring back the memory of his father, to reclaim at least a part of what he had lost.

And now I had to decide: to condemn him for this secret… or to accept his pain and the way he had chosen to cope with it.