The first thing I noticed was how quiet my dad looked.
He was standing near the front door before I even reached the hallway, but something about him felt different. He was not wearing the leather jacket I was used to seeing him in. Instead, he was holding a small wooden box in both hands, as if it mattered more than anything else in the room.
Outside, the street had changed overnight.
Motorcycles lined both sides of the road. Men and women in leather jackets stood beside them, some holding helmets, others with their hands in their pockets against the cold morning air. I recognized a few faces from old photos my dad kept tucked away in a drawer.