The biker stared at her.

Seven years.

A daughter.

His daughter.

He sank onto the dusty floor.

Lily cautiously approached him.

“Are you mad?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

“Then why are you crying?”

He wiped his face.

“I don’t know.”

She hugged him.

And for the first time in eleven years, the biker felt something other than grief when he thought about Rose.