— “You look just like him.”

— “Like who?”

A long pause.

Then she said,
— “My first love. You’re the spitting image. Nico Petez.”

I stopped in my tracks. That was my father’s name.

No one outside our small family back in Colorado ever called him Nico Petez. He died when I was thirteen. Motorcycle accident. We never really got over it. I hadn’t heard his full name spoken out loud in years.

— “Wait… how do you know my dad?”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but her voice stayed calm.

— “We met in Missouri, 1987. My car had broken down. He picked me up, said he’d give me the moon.”

It sounded just like him. But he’d never mentioned her.

— “Were you… together?”

— “Not exactly. Just a wild, beautiful week. He dreamed of California. I was running from my father’s farm.”

— “What’s your name?”

— “Call me Miss Carol.”

That name rang a bell.

— “Hold on… my grandma mentioned you once.”

— “You’re Clara’s grandson?”

— “Yeah. You knew her?”

— “I always thought I was a secret.”

She asked if I could drive her to her sister’s place. I should’ve said no. But the look in her eyes made it impossible.

In the silence of my truck, she quietly said:

— “He promised to write. I never got anything.”

— “He didn’t know about you. He married young.”

She nodded.

— “I let it go. But I always wondered.”

She pulled out a photo—her and my father, laughing, young.

— “I found out I was sick. I just wanted to know if he’d left anything behind.”

I tried to hand the picture back.

— “Keep it. That week meant something.”

Outside her sister’s house, she said:

— “Thank you, Nico. You helped me close a chapter.”

A few days later, I got a letter.

“Nico —
I never had a son with your father, but you’re the closest thing.
Thank you for bringing me peace.
— Miss Carol”

Inside was a check for $2,000.

A month later, a man delivered an envelope. Carol had passed away. She’d left me a storage unit.

Inside: furniture, letters… and a 1968 Triumph Bonneville. Hanging from the handlebar was a note:

“He said this was his dream bike.”

And a letter:

“He gave it to me in ’87. He never came back. Now it’s yours. Take it somewhere beautiful.”

I ride often now. For the peace of it.

And I think of her. Of him.
Of the quiet threads that tie us together—
waiting to be found.