Evelyn reached the café five minutes early. It was small and quiet, the kind of place where the barista knew every regular by byline on the paper cups. She chose the corner table with the view of the door and ordered simple things: a black coffee and a ham-and-cheese sandwich. She pressed her palms to the warm cup and felt her breath settle.
At noon, a man walked in with his hands in his coat pockets. Harrison. He looked the same as he had in school—clean lines, steady eyes, a face that seemed to think before it moved. He spotted her at once and came over without making a show of it.
“Evelyn," he said. “Long time."
“Hi, Harrison." She stood, and they exchanged a brief, polite hug. No extra weight. No old drama.
He sat, set his phone face‑down, and nodded at the plate. “Eat while it's w
