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Summary
The words were written by hand, and an elegant scrawling script was painted with ink. Marc had found the paper folded neatly, Marc Márquez written on it with a flourish. He could think of no one who would have left a note—a love poem—slipped through the cracked-open window in his motorhome.
As much as Marc hated to admit it, the thought of the poem followed him the entire weekend. Just about everyone he crossed, Marc spared a thought to consider if it was them. Still, despite all his pondering, Marc truly had no idea who it could be.