Jazz sat in the farthest booth, the one against the wall, where he could see everyone without being seen. The diner was almost empty—just a couple of truckers in the corner, and a lone waitress wiping down the counter. The hum of the fluorescent lights was almost as loud as the clink of silverware, and it was oddly soothing to Jazz. A world moving on without him.

His coffee was cold now, untouched. He stared at the chipped rim, the faint stains on the white ceramic. Small, unremarkable things that often turned into something bigger. He’d seen it before—how a moment could twist and catch you off guard. One wrong move, and suddenly nothing was simple anymore.

He pulled his hood down just a little, enough so the waitress wouldn’t think he was trying to hide. She glanced over at him once, her eyes lingering for a moment longer than usual, but she moved on to refill a glass of water at the next table.

Jazz looked out the window, watching the rain begin to fall, turning the street into a blur of neon reflections. His mind, though, was elsewhere—his father, the murders, the things he’d been taught to see that no one else could. The window was empty now, but Jazz could still feel it—his father’s presence, always lurking at the edges of his thoughts. Always waiting for him to slip.

He looked back down at his coffee. His left hand hovered over it, but he didn’t touch it. Something about it felt wrong, like there was a memory tangled up in it he couldn’t quite reach.

A loud laugh from the truckers caught his attention, and for a brief moment, he felt like an outsider. Like he was no longer a part of this world, just a ghost waiting for his story to play out. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.

The waitress approached again, and Jazz didn’t need to look up to know she was standing there. She was waiting for him to order, to ask for something. He hadn’t eaten all day. His stomach growled softly, but he fought the urge to ignore it.