Page 105 of Wings
The dirt road wound upward, narrow enough that branches scraped the air above us. The bike moved slower here, picking through ruts and roots with careful precision. Pine smell overwhelmed everything else, sharp and clean in my nose. The temperature dropped another few degrees, making me grateful for the warm jacket he'd reminded me to bring.
My heart kicked up, but not from fear. Anticipation, maybe. Curiosity. Whatever this was, wherever we were going, it mattered. I could feel it in the tension of his shoulders, thecareful way he navigated each turn. This wasn't a casual ride to clear our heads. This was purposeful.
The trees opened up suddenly, revealing a small clearing. Gabe killed the engine, and the silence hit like a physical thing. No traffic, no machinery, no human noise at all. Just birds settling for the night and wind moving through pine needles. He kicked the stand down, steadied the bike, then helped me off with hands that lingered on my waist again.
"Okay?" he asked, pulling off his helmet. His hair stuck up in spikes, making him look younger despite the serious set of his mouth.
"Yeah." I removed my own helmet, shaking out hair that had gone flat and staticky. "Where are we?"
But he was already taking my hand, lacing our fingers together with that careful possessiveness that still made my stomach flutter. "Come on. Want to show you something."
A narrow trail led from where we'd parked, barely wide enough for one person. Gabe went first, keeping hold of my hand, helping me over roots and rocks. The path wasn't long—maybe fifty yards—but it felt like crossing into somewhere else entirely. The temperature, the quality of light, even the sound of our breathing seemed different.
The trail opened into another clearing, this one obviously maintained. Low wooden benches formed a rough circle around a central point. Candles in weather-worn glass jars sat at various points, some fresh, some burned down to nothing. And at the center, a wooden post worn smooth by weather and hands. No names, no dates. Just a pair of wings carved deep into the grain.
"Gabe?" My voice came out whispered, like speaking normal would break something.
He squeezed my hand once before letting go, moving to a box I hadn't noticed tucked beside one of the benches. Inside were candles—simple white votives—and a lighter. He selected one, litit with movements gone ritualistic with practice, then offered it to me.
"Here," he said softly. "We'll need this."
We settled onto the nearest bench, the weathered wood cold even through my jeans. Gabe's thigh pressed against mine, solid and warm, grounding me in the strange sanctity of this place. The candle flickered in my hands, throwing shadows that danced with the ones cast by the other flames scattered throughout the clearing.
"This is where we come," Gabe said quietly, his voice carrying that particular weight that meant he was sharing something sacred. "The Heavy Kings. When we lose someone. When we need to remember."
His hand found mine, fingers threading through in that way that had become second nature. I shifted the candle to my other hand, careful not to disturb the flame, so I could hold him properly.
"Lost brothers," I said, understanding washing over me as I took in the carved wings, the careful arrangement of benches, the mix of old and new candles. "This is your memorial."
"Yeah." He squeezed my hand. "Not official, nothing marked on any map. Just . . . ours. A place to sit with it when sitting with it is all you can do."
The wind picked up, making all the candles dance in their jars. Some went out, leaving thin streams of smoke curling upward. Others held steady, stubborn against the October chill. Like the men they represented, maybe. Some gone quick, some holding on through everything.
"We're here for Alex," I said. Not a question. I knew it in my bones, felt it in the careful way Gabe had brought me here, the weight of the unspoken that had ridden with us all the way from town.
He nodded, thumb stroking over my knuckles. "Been thinking about it for weeks. Wanting to . . . I don't know. Mark it somehow. That he's gone."
"He hasn't called." The words came out steadier than I expected. "Hasn't written, hasn't tried to make contact at all. Not once in four months."
"He's doing what he promised," Gabe replied, voice careful like he was testing each word before letting it free. "Staying gone. Starting over. Being dead to us."
Being dead to us. Such a strange phrase. Alex was out there somewhere, breathing and walking and maybe even getting clean. But to us, to this life, he might as well be in the ground. The brother Gabe had grown up with, the man who'd claimed to love me while destroying everything he touched, the person who’d scarred me forever—that person was gone.
"I still think about him." The admission felt like letting out a breath I'd been holding for months. "Not the way I used to, not with fear. Just . . . I think about how bad it got. How twisted he became. How close it came to . . ."
I couldn't finish. Didn't need to. The wind said the rest, carrying smoke and pine needles and all the words for disasters that almost were. Gabe's hand tightened on mine, and I knew he was seeing it too.
"I do too," Gabe admitted, the words pulled from somewhere deep. "Think about him, I mean. Wonder if he made it to wherever he was going. If he's using the money to get clean or just . . . using."
"Does it matter?" I asked, then immediately felt cruel for it.
"No." His answer came quick, certain. "No, it doesn't. He made his choice. We made ours. What matters is that he's gone and we're here."
We sat in silence for a moment, watching our candle flame fight the wind. Around us, other flames flickered in their jars—each one someone's grief made visible, someone's loss given light. I wondered about their stories. Motorcycle accidents, probably. Maybe cancer. Violence. All the ways men who lived hard could die too soon.
"I don't hate him anymore," Gabe said suddenly. "Thought I would forever. Thought that kind of anger was permanent, you know? Like a tattoo. But somewhere in the last few months, it just . . . faded."
"When?" I asked, genuinely curious. "When did you notice?"
