I Panicked When I Found A Biker Sleeping On My Porch Until I Saw The Note In His Hand

I panicked when I found a biker sleeping on my porch until I saw the note clutched in his bloodied hand.

It was 5 AM on a Tuesday, and I’d gone outside to get the newspaper when I nearly tripped over him. A massive man in leather, curled up against my front door like a dying dog, his gray beard matted with what looked like dried blood.

My first instinct was to run back inside and call 911. But then I saw the paper in his fist. My name was written on it in shaky handwriting: “Mrs. Elizabeth Chen – PLEASE READ BEFORE CALLING POLICE.”

My hands trembled as I carefully pulled the note from his grip. He didn’t wake up. Didn’t even stir. His breathing was shallow, labored. Up close, I could see his leather vest was torn, his face bruised purple and yellow.

The note was brief: “Mrs. Chen, I know you don’t know me, but I knew your son David. I was with him in Afghanistan when he died. I promised him something. I’m sorry it took me twelve years to keep that promise.

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