The little motorcycle hummed softly.
She smiled so widely that Gunter had to look away for a second.
"Ready?"
"Ready!"
He guided her through the garage driveway at walking speed.
Lily laughed.
Claire cried.
Gunter pretended not to notice.
The gift became the talk of the neighborhood.
But Gunter insisted that Lily earn the right to ride it.
Every afternoon, she practiced.
Braking.
Turning.
Stopping.
Looking both ways.
Wearing protective gear.
Learning patience.
She fell once.
Only once.
She scraped her knee and looked at Gunter with tears in her eyes.
"I broke your bike."
Gunter crouched beside her.
"You didn't."
"But it stopped."
"Machines stop."
"Did I do something wrong?"
"You learned something."
"What?"
"How to fall."
Lily sniffed.
"Is that good?"
"It's necessary."
She looked at the motorcycle.
"Can we fix it?"
Gunter smiled.
"Now you're thinking like a mechanic."
They repaired the loose foot peg together.
After that, Lily began spending afternoons in the garage.
She learned the names of tools.
She learned that bolts tightened too hard could strip.
She learned that engines needed patience.
She learned that Gunter drank coffee black.
She learned that he talked to motorcycles when he thought nobody was listening.
And Gunter learned something too.
He learned that grief could become less heavy without becoming less important.
One afternoon Lily asked, "Did your wife like yellow?"
Gunter stopped polishing a wrench.
"She loved it."
"Was she nice?"
"Very."
"Was she pretty?"
Gunter smiled.
"The prettiest woman I ever saw."
"Did she ride fast?"
"Too fast."
Lily giggled.
"Did she crash?"
"Once."
"Did she cry?"
Gunter laughed.
"Now I know where you got that question."
"From Mom."
"No."
"From you?"
"Definitely not."