This is a story of bitter disappointment, of tears, of the love of those close to you, of an unusual biker, and of a magical feather that showed you your very first path.

 

A scorching midday. Summer holidays. No lessons, no worries. Joy and laughter fill the air among schoolchildren. Some went with their parents to the hot sea, others to a quiet village.
But in the dusty city, boredom reigns. No one around in the daytime. And there you sit, quietly crying at the bus stop. A bicycle is lying in the bushes nearby, your knees are scraped and bleeding. But what hurts most is the shame — that you still couldn’t ride on two wheels.

You begged your father to take off the training wheels. You rolled the bike out proudly before the neighborhood kids, mounted it, pushed off… and it toppled at once. You tried again downhill, but before your feet found the pedals, the bicycle faltered and threw you sideways.
And the kids laughed. They pointed their fingers. The girls whispered and giggled in that nasty way.

With eyes full of tears streaming down dusty cheeks, you turned away from the mocking crowd, swallowed your sobs, and dragged the traitorous iron skeleton by its horns back home.
When no one was watching anymore, you hurled it furiously into the bushes, sat on the bench at the bus stop, hugged your scraped knees, and wept quietly, head bowed.

And still ahead was your father’s reproach: “Well? Didn’t I tell you… Ehh.”
Your mother would comfort you, soften his teasing.
But—It—Wouldn’t—Ride! And the tears washed the dust from your cheeks once more.

The steady rumble of an engine caught your attention. You looked down the deserted street. Strange — not a soul. And then, gleaming with paint and chrome, a Harley rolled slowly toward you. Beautiful! Words failed, eyes transfixed. You buried your face in your knees, hiding tears from the woman taming the beast — a woman with enormous, radiant, snow-white wings.

She rode a motorcycle. And you couldn’t ride a little bike.

The rumble stopped right at the bus stop, the kickstand clicked. And suddenly — a crash.
You looked up: the shining Harley lay on its side. Beside it stood the woman. Her face bewildered, her wings drawn tight in fright. She covered her face with slender hands, and her shoulders shook with sobs.

You stared for a moment, then cautiously stood and approached. Her wings were so beautiful you longed to touch them. Fear and curiosity tore you apart — but compassion made you reach out.
A gentle touch. And another.

— You’re upset. I understand you so well.
— Yes.

She wiped her tears. No sadness remained — only concern, not despair.

— I washed and polished it, and then this pothole…
She looked at you intently.
— Will you help me lift it?
— Me?!
— There’s no one else.
— I’ll grab it and push, you kick the stand when I say “Now.”
— All right.

She turned her back to the bike, braced against the seat, gripped the handlebar and frame. A confident push with her legs — and the heavy motorcycle rose obediently upright.
— Now!
The kickstand clicked into place, holding the weight.

— There! You did it so well.
— Thank you. Sometimes all it takes is someone to set the stand. And you were that person.

You stood dazed, praised by… her.

— Are you… an Angel?
— Astrena. I am the guardian of love and resolve. I protect love and give confidence.
— Love… resolve… for me?
— Yes. It seemed you doubted someone’s love.
— Me?!
She mimicked your father’s voice: “Well? Didn’t I tell you… Ehh.”

— I only thought it… He always teases me, worse than the boys in the yard. I try so hard. I swim, I play chess and football, I’m nearly a star. My grades are great. But he doesn’t see. Since the baby came, all his heart is there. Everyone admires the little one’s steps, his words. And me… I…

— You long for his love and attention, don’t you?
— Yes!

The sobs returned. But her wings wrapped around you, and you grew still.

— Your heart is kind, full of love — unconditional and true. Sometimes you notice flaws in people. But those are the very people you love. Think of the good moments with your father.
— He’s funny. He can gather friends and be the soul of the party. He cooks for us. We travel a lot. He can fix anything.
— And he truly is proud of you. Tears come to his eyes when you win. He remembers your requests, though not all he manages. He carries the family. He loves your mother, and she loves him. Now much attention goes to the baby. But you were cared for just as much. Believe me — we know. Think of how many songs he sang you at night.

— So… he won’t tease me?
— He might. Perhaps he doesn’t know how to show support. Maybe he’s shy to comfort you — strange as that sounds. You’ve heard “boys don’t cry,” haven’t you?
— Yes. We don’t cry…
— Hah! Nonsense! Everyone cries. Even angels drop motorcycles — and need help.

— Yes… I see. And resolve?
— Sit on your bike.
— …
— Go on. I’m an Angel.

You mounted, hands on the bars. She plucked a feather from her wing.
— I’ll release it. It will fly toward your home. I’ll steady you from behind. Keep your eyes on the feather and pedal. Don’t think about balance — that’s mine to care for. Follow the feather, resolute and unstoppable!

The light feather floated, pointing the way.
You pushed off — riding straight, then turning. Slowly at first. But suddenly you realized: you were riding on your own. Like an angel with wings, soaring through the city streets. Not bitter tears now — but tears of joy, whipped away by the wind.

Your mother met you at the door, smiling. Your father stood, arms crossed — and wiped away a tear of pride.

“Yes. Astrena was right — everyone cries.”

And the feather would stay with you forever.