The cold of that autumn morning felt different. In Guadalajara, the wind used to bring with it a metallic smell, a mixture of smoke and asphalt, but that day the air smelled empty. Emilio Pardo, director of the Paz Eterna funeral home, had been sitting in the small chapel for more than two hours. In front of him, a white coffin stood motionless, as if suspended in time. Inside, lay the body of

Tomás Lucero, a boy of just ten years old who had died the day before of leukemia.

Emilio had seen thousands of farewells: lavish, modest, chaotic and even grotesque funerals. But what I had never seen was a funeral where

no one appeared. The boy had been raised by his grandmother, the only one who visited him during his illness. And fate, cruel as few times, had decided to take her too: a heart attack left her in the ICU just the day before her grandson’s burial.

Social Services had already signed the papers. The host family that had had him for a short time ignored it. The parish refused to officiate the service because “they could not associate with the son of a murderer.” And the funeral home, despite its duty, was about to bury Tomás in a

An anonymous municipal niche, with only one number per tombstone.

Emilio, with suppressed tears, picked up the phone. There was a name that crossed his mind: Manolo “El Tuerto”

, an old acquaintance, president of the Nomad Riders, a biker club in the city. He had dealt with him years ago, when his wife died of cancer. The bikers had escorted that funeral procession out of friendship and respect. And today, Emilio felt that he was the only one capable of understanding the injustice of that moment.

“Manolo, I need help,” he said in a broken voice.
“What’s the matter, Emilio?” The biker replied, still with the steaming coffee in his hand.
“I have a child here… died of leukemia. No one comes to say goodbye. And no one will come.

Manolo frowned, gritting his teeth.
“Foster child?”
“Worse,” Emilio sighed. He is the son of Marcos Lucero.

That name was enough. Everyone knew him. Marcos Lucero, a man marked by violence, was serving a life sentence for a triple homicide in a settling of scores. His face had appeared all over the news. And now her innocent son was about to be buried as if he had never existed.

“Emilio, that child did not choose his father. Wait for me two hours.
“I only need four pallbearers…
“You’ll have more than four.

Manolo hung up. He walked to the club room, where thirty-seven men were drinking, laughing, or fixing engines. He climbed up to a table and spoke:

“Brothers, there is a ten-year-old boy who will be buried only because his father is in prison. He died of cancer. No one claims it, no one mourns it. I’m going to his funeral. I don’t force anyone. But if they believe that

no child should go alone, join me to Eternal Peace in ninety minutes.

The silence became heavy. The first to speak was Old Bear:
“My grandson is ten. I’m going with you.

Hammer nodded:
“Mine too.
Ron, in a trembling voice, murmured,
“My son would be ten if that drunk hadn’t been—” and he couldn’t finish.

It was then that Miguelón, historical president of the Nomads, stood up:

“Call the other clubs. Everyone. This is not about territories or patches. It’s about a child.

The calls flew in. Rebel Eagles. Knights of Steel. Demons of the Asphalt. Even clubs with grudges of years. They all said the same thing:

“We’ll be there.”

The roar of the motorcycles

Emilio did not understand what was happening. At two o’clock in the afternoon, the funeral home parking lot vibrated with a deafening roar. Three hundred and twelve motorcycles

filled not only the parking lot, but three streets around. Men and women in leather jackets, embroidered patches, and shiny helmets would get off one by one.

When the door of the chapel opened, Emilio held his breath. Inside, a small white coffin waited. Next to it, a modest bouquet of supermarket flowers. Nothing else.

“Is that all?” Sierpe, one of the toughest bikers, asked.
“The flowers are from the hospital,” Emilio admitted. Standard protocol.
“the protocol,” someone growled.

One by one, the bikers passed in front of the coffin. Rough men, with tears in their eyes, left small offerings: a stuffed animal, a toy motorcycle, flowers, even a children’s leather jacket with the embroidery.”

Honorary Rider“.

But it was Lápida, a veteran of the Eagles, who broke everyone’s soul. He took a crumpled photo and placed it next to the coffin.
“This was my boy, Javier. I was the same age when leukemia took him away from me. I couldn’t save him. But now, Thomas, you are not alone. Javier will show you the way upstairs.

Tears flowed. No one knew Thomas, but everyone spoke as if he were their own. And in a way, it was.

The unexpected call

Suddenly, Emilio’s cell phone vibrated. He answered and turned pale.
“It’s from prison,” he murmured.
Everyone looked at him.
“Marcos Lucero…” he found out. Of the death of his son. They are watching him because they believe he will try to take his own life. Ask if anyone came to the funeral.

The chapel was in absolute silence. Miguelón stepped forward:
“Put it on speakerphone.”

Marcos’ voice sounded broken, almost unrecognizable:
“Hello? Is there anyone? Did someone go for my child?

Manolo took a deep breath.
“Yes, Mark. Here we are. More than three hundred. You’re not alone. Your son had the farewell he deserved.

A sob pierced the phone. The man who had been feared in the streets cried like a child.
“Thank you…” I don’t know how to thank them. I wasn’t there… I failed.
“Your son was asking if you still loved him,” said Miguelón, in a firm voice. And today it’s our turn to tell you: yes you wanted it. And he knew it, because he didn’t go alone.

Mark was silent. Then, with a broken voice, he whispered,
“You saved more than my son. They saved me.

Courtship

The coffin was carried amidst applause and engines roaring in unison. The small white coffin, on the shoulders of eight bikers, traveled the street escorted by hundreds of motorcycles. People came out of their homes, leaning out of the balconies, wondering who this child was capable of uniting so many.

In the municipal cemetery, the anonymous niche awaited him. But the bikers did not allow it. Between them they all collected money in minutes, crumpled and generous bills. They bought a dignified tombstone, with his name engraved:

Tomás Lucero
2015 – 2025
Loved and remembered by many.
Never alone.

Epilogue

The newspapers spoke the next day: “Hundreds of bikers say goodbye to forgotten child.” Some saw it as an act of redemption, others as a message of humanity in the midst of chaos.

Emilio, with tears when remembering his wife, felt that he had fulfilled his promise. Manolo and the Nomads returned to their premises, knowing that they had done the right thing that day. And Marcos Lucero, in his cell, stopped thinking about the rope he had hidden. Instead, he began writing letters. Letters to a son who was no longer there, but who taught him that there was still some goodness in the world.

Because that day, thanks to hundreds of engines roaring in unison, a child did not leave alone.