From that day forward, the Black Hounds Motorcycle Club claimed Sophie as their own. They attended her kindergarten recital in full leather, towering over folding chairs as they clapped louder than anyone. They created a scholarship fund in Isla’s name, dedicated to Sophie’s future. They let her sit on their bikes in parades, promising she could ride for real when she was old enough.

But the most astonishing moment came six months later.

Sophie was in Jonas’s backyard, chasing the family dog, when she suddenly stopped beneath an old chestnut tree.

“She wants you to dig here,” she told him.

Jonas blinked. “Who?”

“Isla,” Sophie said simply.

He hesitated, but something in her certainty compelled him. Together they dug. And there, in a rusted tin box, was a folded piece of paper.

The handwriting was unmistakably Isla’s.

“Daddy,” it read, “the angel told me I won’t grow up, but one day a little girl with yellow hair will come. She’ll sing my song and save you when you’re hurt. Please believe her. Don’t be sad—I’ll be riding with you forever.”

Jonas sank to his knees, tears flooding his weathered face. Sophie wrapped her small arms around him and whispered, “She likes your red bike. She always wanted you to have one.”