The night shift at the diner moved like a slow tide—steady, low-lit, and a little quieter than the chaos of the morning rush. The warm glow of overhead bulbs reflected off the chrome trim and vinyl seats, casting everything in a soft, amber haze. Outside, the city buzzed gently under a navy sky, headlights drifting like fireflies past the windows.
Inside, the jukebox hummed a soft tune—some mellow oldie that Victoria claimed made everything taste better.
Celeste didn’t flinch at the bell above the door anymore.
She wove between tables with practiced calm, her apron slightly wrinkled from a long day but her eyes a little more present than they had been. The ache still lived in her chest, quiet and heavy like old rainclouds, but something in her was slowly learning how to breathe again.
