“The bell over the diner door gave a weak jangle.

She stepped inside.

It smelled like every roadside dive—burnt coffee, fryer grease, mop water missing the corners. A farmer hunched at the counter, hands around a chipped mug. Soil and sweat clung to his flannel, damp under the arms. His boots scraped the stool’s rung with each restless shift.

The waitress didn’t look up. Wiped a table with a rag older than sin. Then nodded at the booths. “Sit anywhere.”

The woman slid into cracked vinyl. The seat hissed, foam collapsing. She folded her hands. Stared at the menu without seeing it. Outside, the neon sign buzzed, casting a sickly red glow across the glass.

The waitress approached, pad in hand. Face lined, eyes sharp, missing nothing. A thin silver bracelet jangled loose on her wrist, too big for her now. She smelled of cigarettes and lemon soap.”