He wasn’t digging a hole. He was digging small trenches around the grave. And what he pulled from a bag made me lower my phone.
Marigolds. He was planting marigolds in a heart shape around the headstone.
Another biker pulled out a toy truck. Then a birthday cake with candles. Then photographs in frames.
I stopped breathing when the biggest one—gray beard to his chest, arms covered in tattoos—pulled out a piece of paper and started reading aloud.
“Hey little man. It’s us again. Your uncles.”
His voice cracked on the word uncles.
“We came to wish you happy birthday like we do every year. You would have been twelve today.”
I watched seven grown men in leather vests bow their heads around a tiny grave. I watched them light birthday candles and sing happy birthday off-key through tears.
I watched the biggest one kneel down, kiss the headstone, and whisper, “We’re sorry we found you too late, Mikey. But you’ll never be forgotten. Not as long as we’re breathing.”
My 911 call was still connected. The dispatcher was asking if I had an emergency.
When the bikers left, I walked to the grave. The headstone read: “Michael ‘Mikey’ Unknown. Approximately 7 years old. Found January 15, 2019. May he finally know warmth.”
Found. Not born and died. Found.
I spent the next week learning who Mikey was.
The county records told a story that haunts me still.
January 15, 2019. Coldest night in a decade. A group of bikers doing homeless outreach found a child’s body under the Miller Street Bridge. A little boy, maybe seven years old. Frozen to death. Wearing summer clothes. No shoes. A thin blanket that couldn’t save him.
No identification. No missing child reports matching his description. Police investigated for months. Nothing.
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