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The sight of it feels like an answer.

Crossing the street, I drag my suitcase over a seam in the pavement that nearly tips it onto its side. The bell over the diner door rings when I step inside.

Warm air carries the scent of coffee, bacon, and something sweet baking somewhere beyond the counter. Conversations continue beneath the scrape of forks and the quiet clink of dishes. A ceiling fan turns lazily overhead, stirring air that smells faintly of syrup.

A few people glance up. Their attention lands briefly on me, drops to the suitcase, then moves on.

A man at the counter returns to his newspaper. Two women in a booth continue a conversation about someone named Carol’s New Year’s resolution that she broke before the second week in January. Near the window, an older couple share a plate of toast without speaking, passing the jam between them with the ease of people who have performed the same small ritual for years.

“Sit wherever you like, honey,” the waitress says from behind the counter and lifts a coffee pot in acknowledgment before pouring a refill for the man with the newspaper. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

I choose a booth near the front window and slide the suitcase against the wall beside me. My arms feel strangely light once I let go of the handle, though faint red impressions remain across my palm.

A laminated menu waits between the napkin dispenser and a bottle of ketchup.

I’m still reading the list of omelets when the woman approaches with a mug in one hand and the coffee pot in the other. Silver threads run through the dark hair swept away from her face. Her eyes are sharp enough to notice everything without making the attention feel unkind.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

She turns the mug upright and fills it nearly to the rim. “Cream’s on the table. I’m Marge.” Her eyes flick briefly to the suitcase before coming back to my face. “You’re new.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Suitcase in a diner booth in the middle of January tends to give it away.” She says it kindly, no judgment in it at all. “What’s your name, honey?”

“Astra.”

I don’t offer my last name. It doesn’t occur to me until a second later that no one here is waiting for it. There’s no moment of recognition. No questions about being Dr. Ellison’s daughter or whether my mother’s the attorney who handled whichever merger recently appeared in the business section. Sometimes they ask about Graham before they ask about me.

Marge only smiles. “Nice to meet you, Astra.”

“You too.”

“Do you need a minute with that?”

I glance at the menu. “Probably several.”

“Take as many as you want. We’re not fancy enough to require fast decisions.”

She moves toward another table, topping off coffee and collecting an empty plate as she goes. I add cream to my mug and watch it bloom through the dark liquid. The coffee’s strong, hot, and completely ordinary.

Nothing at home is ordinary. Coffee comes from beans someone has researched, sourced, and ground to the precise setting appropriate for whichever machine currently occupies the counter. Breakfast is prepared according to schedules and dietary recommendations. Dinner requires reservations made weeks in advance.

There’s something deeply comforting about a chipped ceramic mug and a laminated menu sticky at one corner.

I scan the menu one more time before setting it down, my decision made. For once, no one’s waiting to tell me carbohydrates will make me sluggish.

Marge returns with an order pad tucked into one hand. “Ready?”

“I’ll have the blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon.”

“You got it.” She scribbles it onto the pad. “Can I get you anything else?”

“I think I’m all set. Thank you.”

“We’ll have it right out.” She slides the pad into her apron and disappears through the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen.