The morning sunlight filtered through the diner's windows, dust motes swirling like silent warnings. Mia sat in the corner booth with a coffee cup she didn't drink from, eyes locked on the window across the street. Sarah would walk by soon. Her routine was predictable, her path unchanging.
Until now.
Mia's fingers tapped a rhythm on the ceramic mug—anxious, deliberate. Every nerve in her body urged caution. But the events of the Watson dinner still replayed behind her eyes. The clenched fork, the silence that followed veiled threats, the aching restraint of her own inaction.
Today would be different.
She'd mapped the timing down to the minute. Sarah's backpack would be on her left shoulder, slightly loose. She'd be passing by the community center at precisely 8:27. Mia had left the flyer herself, posted it on the center's door. A neighborhood art event. Volunteer needed. Low-key. Safe.
Outside, the sidewalk glistened faintly from an early-morning hose-down. The scent of soap and concrete lingered in the air. Across the street, the community center's windows were fogged at the edges, sunlight making halos out of smudges on the glass.
Mia glanced at the old clock near the register. 8:24.
Her heart knocked once, then again.
She stood, smoothing the front of her uniform and stepping outside. The bell above the diner door jingled behind her, sharp and too cheerful.
Sarah appeared at the end of the block, exactly as expected. The backpack hung from her shoulder, the same battered canvas with the torn corner. She walked with even steps, eyes down, as if bracing against an invisible wind.
Mia timed her movement carefully, stepping into view without startling her. She kept her stance relaxed, one hand still gripping the flyer she'd taken from the board earlier.
"Morning," Mia said gently, just as Sarah came within earshot.
Sarah blinked, a flicker of recognition passing through her features. "Hi."
Mia tilted her head toward the center across the street. "You see that? They're looking for help with the art event. Doesn't seem like it'd be a big deal."
Sarah glanced at the flyer Mia held out. The paper was creased but bright, hand-drawn stars bordering the edges. At the top, bubble letters read: "COMMUNITY CREATORS WANTED!"
"They're nice people," Mia continued. "I've done a shift or two."
Sarah hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. "I usually head straight home."
Mia nodded. "Even better reason to make a detour today," she said, injecting lightness into her tone. "One hour. Paint signs. Meet zero weirdos. Maybe even eat a cookie."
Sarah's lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but not a no.
Mia kept her voice even. "You don't have to. Just… figured it might be better than where you're headed."
That made Sarah pause.
Mia didn't fill the silence. She let it breathe. Let Sarah choose.
Sarah looked at the center again. "I guess it wouldn't hurt."
Mia exhaled carefully. "They're setting up inside."
A car honked somewhere down the block. A bird flitted from the gutter to the power line above. The air suddenly felt lighter.
Sarah crossed the street.
Mia didn't follow.
From her post under the diner's awning, she watched through the glass doors as Sarah stepped inside. The receptionist looked up, then smiled and waved her over. A brief exchange. A clipboard. A nod.
Safe.
Mia slid back into the booth she'd vacated. Her coffee was still warm. She wrapped both hands around the cup and stared into the dark surface.
But relief didn't erase the weight of what could still go wrong. Redirection was delicate. Every deviation could provoke a new ripple. One choice dislodged another. And the echoes weren't always immediate.
She watched through the window as Sarah took a seat near the back of the center, beside a table scattered with paint bottles and poster board. She looked awkward at first, unsure where to place her hands.
Then another volunteer—a girl with curly hair and a striped sweater—handed Sarah a brush.
Mia leaned closer to the glass.
Sarah dipped the brush in blue paint.
A tentative line appeared on the paper.
Another girl joined. Laughter. The kind that starts in the chest and curls out soft. Sarah didn't laugh, but she didn't retreat either.
Mia allowed herself one slow, deliberate breath.
The bell on the diner door jingled again.
She tensed, then relaxed as it was just a delivery man, arms full of produce boxes. The manager called out a thank-you. The rhythm of the morning resumed.
Still, Mia's fingers stayed curled tight around the mug. She would wait. She would watch. She would be ready.
And if the ripple came, she would meet it head-on.