I saw them make the old man leave the diner that morning. Then a biker I’d never seen before pulled up and called him by a name that had been buried for sixty years. What I witnessed next, I’m still not sure I was meant to see. You could feel the whispers cut through the Sunday morning chatter at Murphy’s Diner, sharp as a blade. “Look at that old faker,” one of ‘em said, a man in a crisp golf shirt, nodding toward the corner booth. “Grocery store tattoo, trying to score a free meal.” The man th