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I watched from across the street as Grandpa Jack sat alone at that long table, his helmet resting on his folded hands, waiting.
It was supposed to be a celebration. A milestone. Eighty years on this earth, most of them spent on two wheels, carving through the world with grit and stubborn joy. He’d even polished his Harley that morning—hand-polished—which meant something to him. And he’d worn his best leather vest, the one covered in patches from rallies and rides no one in my family had ever bothered to ask him about.
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