A 24-hour laundromat near the edge of town. 
Elijah is there, sketchpad in his lap, slouched on a cracked plastic bench while his clothes tumble in the dryer. He always comes at this hour — fewer people, less noise.
But tonight, someone else is there.
A stranger, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a steaming paper mug of cheap coffee, back against the wall. They’re watching the dryer spin like it’s a movie. They're not on their phone. They seem... still. Present.