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But as Thomas slowly woke and spoke through obvious pain, he told me the truth: David lived for hours, calm and unafraid, talking about me the entire time. Thomas had held him, comforted him, and carried a letter David insisted be delivered only by hand. That letter led us to a sealed wooden box hidden away for years, containing David’s journal and a medal meant for Thomas.
Page after page revealed the bond between the two men—how they carried each other through loss, how Thomas quietly sent money to support me all these years, and how David made sure we would one day find each other. In the middle of illness, grief, and long-buried questions, I finally learned who my son had become—and how deeply he had loved and planned for the people he would leave behind. Thomas stayed with me while he healed, and in time, he introduced me to his motorcycle club—veterans bound by loss, loyalty, and service.
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