The midday rush was in full swing. Plates clattered against counters, orders rang out like overlapping echoes, and the scent of frying bacon hung thick in the air. Mia moved quickly between booths, keeping her head down, her smile polished and automatic.
But inside, her mind was fraying.
The TimeRipple at the laundromat. Beth forgetting their conversation. The photograph in her locker. Each sign had weighed heavier than the last. She needed time to think, to strategize. But there was no time, not here. Only noise, motion, pressure.
"Kelly."
The voice cut through the din like a wire snapping. Mia looked up to see Donna, one of the other waitresses, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched with practiced skepticism.
"You okay?" Donna asked, keeping her voice casual but sharp. "You've been zoning out. Two tables just flagged me down because you missed their coffee refills."
Mia blinked, then nodded. "Sorry. Didn't sleep well. Won't happen again."
Donna didn't budge. "You sure you're alright? You've been… weird lately."
Mia forced a small laugh. "Weird how?"
"You talk to yourself. You disappear in the middle of a shift. Yesterday, you stood in front of the jukebox for five full minutes like you were waiting for it to speak."
Mia felt her stomach turn. "I guess I just needed a song to get stuck in my head."
Donna didn't smile. "Customers notice things. So do managers."
There it was—the warning. Mia nodded again, forcing her expression into something between sheepish and apologetic. "Thanks for the heads up."
Donna shrugged and walked off, but Mia could feel her eyes lingering. The burn of attention itched between her shoulder blades.
She busied herself with pouring coffee and clearing dishes, repeating the motions so precisely it bordered on mechanical. Behind the motions, her brain spun.
If they started watching her too closely, asking too many questions—if anyone suspected what she was, what she wasn't—there'd be consequences. The kind she couldn't repair with a note in a pocket or a kind gesture.
In this era, suspicion didn't end in a conversation. It ended in confinement.
She glanced at the pastel menu board above the counter, the daily special spelled out in crooked red letters: "Tuna Melt & Apple Pie – $2.99." Beside it, the wall calendar hung, its pages faded by time and grease. Mia's gaze drifted over the square blocks.
March 18th.
One date had been circled in red marker. "Watson Family Dinner."
Her heart stalled.
Sarah's last name was Watson.
It wasn't a guarantee. It could've been unrelated. But her instincts screamed otherwise.
She dried her hands on a dish towel and stepped back toward the break room. The calendar was hung just beside it. No one noticed her pause. Her eyes scanned the rest of the month. Nothing else marked. Just that date. A Saturday. Three days from now.
A family dinner.
The thought made her stomach knot. Would Sarah be there? Would her father?
She imagined Sarah sitting at a table while a man watched her too closely. The same man she'd seen only once, through a dusty window. A harsh face. A sharp silhouette.
And as if summoned by thought alone, the bell above the front door chimed.
Mia turned.
He stood in the doorway.
Taller than she remembered. Graying at the temples. A button-down shirt tucked into belted jeans. His eyes were already scanning the room.
Sarah's father.
The air seemed to crystallize.
He didn't move right away. Just stood there, surveying the diner. Mia ducked behind the soda dispenser, heart pounding in her throat.
Why was he here? How much did he know? Did he recognize her?
Her hands gripped the counter's edge. The chrome bit into her palms. She forced herself to breathe, one second at a time.
"Table for one?" Donna's voice called out.
He nodded and followed her toward a booth by the window. He took the seat with his back to the wall, a clear view of the entire room. Strategic. Deliberate.
Mia crouched lower. She couldn't be seen. Not yet.
Through the narrow gap between the soda machine and napkin rack, she saw him remove a leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket. He flipped through pages with casual slowness, then set it on the table beside him.
She couldn't read what was inside.
But she didn't need to.
Whatever was coming, it had begun.
She eased backward toward the kitchen entrance, moving behind the swinging door without drawing attention. Inside, the smells were stronger—grease, onions, hot steel. The cook glanced up but said nothing.
Mia leaned against the walk-in cooler, palms flat, pulse racing. Her mind scattered through possibilities.
What if he asked for her by name?
What if he wasn't here for food?
What if she had already shifted something too far?
A shrill bell rang—a burger order ready for pickup. The metal ticket rail rattled as another slip was pushed through.
Mia exhaled sharply. She forced her mind to quiet. One task at a time.
She returned to the floor with a tray in hand, eyes down, focusing only on her section.
From the corner of her vision, she watched him. He ate slowly. Observed. He barely touched his coffee.
Donna walked past. "You gonna check on table seven?"
Mia nodded. Her feet moved. She approached the booth directly across from Sarah's father, keeping her body angled.
"Everything alright here?" she asked the couple.
They nodded. One asked for ketchup. She fetched it.
Returning, she allowed herself a second glance toward the man. He met her eyes. Brief. Measured.
Recognition?
Or coincidence?
She pivoted and disappeared toward the restrooms.
Inside the mirror-lit silence, she stared at her own reflection. Her face was pale. Lips thin. Eyes shadowed.
This is unraveling.
She couldn't run. Not yet.
But she would need to plan.
Because the past was watching her back.