The morning air clung to Mia like static as she stepped through the diner's glass door. A soft bell above jingled, its pitch nostalgic and oddly melodic. She blinked beneath the flickering neon sign that read "Tilly's Place - Hot Coffee & Honest Plates," its buzz a quiet hum against the hum of her nerves. The interior was exactly what she had expected from every film or textbook description of a 1980s American diner—and yet it felt overwhelmingly real.
Chrome stools lined the counter, their tops bright red and shining with wear. The booths had vinyl cushions, some patched with duct tape. A jukebox near the door played a tune with heavy brass and snappy drums, something from an era before hers. Behind the counter, a woman with a bouffant hairstyle and bubblegum-pink lipstick poured coffee into thick ceramic mugs, chatting easily with the patrons. A bell above the kitchen pass-through rang once.
Mia clutched the folded help wanted ad in her hand. The ink had smeared slightly from her grip, but the text still read clear enough: "Server Needed. No Experience Required. Inquire Within."
She approached the counter. Her steps felt too deliberate. Her breaths, too rehearsed.
The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled. "Morning, sweetheart. You here about the job?"
Mia nodded, finding her voice. "Yes, ma'am. I'm... new in town."
The woman laughed. "Oh, no need for 'ma'am,' sugar. Name's Betty. Everyone here calls me that, even the health inspector."
Betty gestured for Mia to sit. "You got a name?"
"Mia," she said quickly. "Just Mia."
"Well, Just Mia, you look like you can carry a tray without tipping it. Ever worked a floor before?"
"Once or twice," Mia hedged. The truth was closer to 'never,' but she'd seen enough simulations, enough archives to fake it. Hopefully.
Betty didn't seem to mind. She handed Mia a uniform—a mint-green dress with white trim and a name tag that read "Kelly."
Mia took it with a tight smile.
"Locker's in the back. Don't mind the jukebox. It likes to skip every third track since the storm last year."
In the backroom, the uniform clung to her like someone else's skin. It smelled of starch and coffee grounds. She pinned on the name tag. Kelly. She could be Kelly today. She stared at herself in the mirror for a moment, straightened her shoulders, and repeated quietly, "Kelly."
When she emerged, Betty handed her an order pad and pointed out her station—three booths and two counter stools. "Watch how Doris does it," she said, nodding toward a woman in her sixties who moved like clockwork, taking orders with military precision and greeting each regular by name.
Mia tried to mimic her. She greeted an elderly couple, refilled a trucker's coffee, and scribbled orders with a careful flourish. She repeated slang she'd practiced in her notebook: "Comin' right up," and "Two eggs, sunny side, got it."
Each phrase felt like a test.
The first time she poured coffee, she forgot to ask if they wanted cream. She backtracked, returned with a smile, and corrected the mistake. The second time, she wrote "BLT" as "BTL" and had to rewrite the ticket. Betty noticed but said nothing.
Mia bumped into a busboy rounding the corner. "Sorry," she muttered.
He grinned. "First day? You're doin' fine. Way better than the last new girl. She dropped a plate on Mrs. Turner's lap."
Mia forced a laugh. "I'll try to avoid that."
A regular with suspenders and a newspaper called out, "Hey, Kelly! Refill over here!"
She blinked. It took her a beat to remember that was her name now. She grabbed the coffee pot and hurried over, careful to tilt just enough. "There you go, sir."
"Sir," he repeated with amusement. "Ain't been called that in decades. You keep that up, we might make you employee of the month."
As the shift wore on, her nerves settled into a rhythm. She found herself anticipating orders before customers spoke. She caught herself smiling genuinely at a child coloring on the menu. She poured coffee with a steady hand.
But still, she kept one ear on conversations. She listened to names, routines, bits of gossip. The town was small, and its rhythms predictable. She needed to understand them if she was going to stay hidden.
A teenage boy argued with his mother over car keys in the next booth. A pair of women debated the best pie in town ("apple, always apple") while a man read the obituaries out loud to his buddy. Everything was ordinary. Comfortingly so. Painfully so.
During a lull, Betty leaned against the counter and gave Mia a once-over. "You pick things up quick. Where'd you say you were from again?"
Mia froze for a heartbeat. "Upstate," she said, too vaguely. "Near the border."
Betty narrowed her eyes just a little. Not suspicious, not yet. Curious.
Mia forced a smile. "Tiny town. Doubt it'd be on any map."
Betty shrugged. "Fair enough. You got a place to stay?"
"Yeah. With... a friend."
"You sure you ain't runnin' from something?"
The question was half-joking, half-serious. Mia kept her smile steady. "Aren't we all, a little?"
Betty laughed. "Well, as long as your shoes stay clean and your trays don't fall, I don't care if you came from the moon."
The bell above the door rang again. Another customer. Betty waved her off. "Alright then, Kelly. Back to work. Lunch rush is comin'."
As Mia turned back to the floor, she caught her reflection in the jukebox glass—smiling, composed, not herself. But holding together.
She looked up at the neon sign outside. It flickered again. Once. Twice. The "T" blinked out entirely.
She felt it then—a tiny tug beneath her ribs. Like a ripple.
It hadn't stopped.