The Hollow Spoon opened at 7 a.m., but Maren was always there by six. The diner was quiet in those early hours — just the hum of the fridge, the clink of mugs, and the occasional groan from the old espresso machine. She liked it that way. It gave her time to breathe before the day asked too much of her.

She tied her apron, wiped down the counter, and flipped the sign to “Open.” Outside, the street was still waking up — a jogger passed by, a delivery truck hissed to a stop, and the sky turned from bruised gray to pale gold.

Her first customer was always Mr. Latham, retired and punctual, who ordered black coffee and read the paper like it still mattered. He nodded at her without speaking, and she poured his cup without asking. That was their rhythm.

By nine, the regulars trickled in. A couple of college kids with headphones and laptops. A woman who always ordered toast and stared out the window like she was waiting for someone. Maren moved between tables with practiced ease — polite smile, refill offer, receipt tucked under the salt shaker.

Tips were light today. They usually were.

She took a break around eleven, sitting on the back steps with a cigarette she didn’t light and a notebook she did. She scribbled a few lines — something about rain and memory — then tore the page out and stuffed it in her pocket. She didn’t know why. Maybe she just wanted to keep something.

Her phone buzzed. A missed call from her mom. She’d call back later. Maybe.

Inside, the lunch rush never came. A couple of orders, a spilled soda, and a kid who cried until his pancake arrived. Maren cleaned up, smiled through it, and kept moving.

By three, the diner was quiet again. She leaned against the counter, watching the light shift across the floor tiles. Her feet ached. Her heart did too, but she didn’t talk about that.

She just waited — for the next customer, the next shift, the next something.

And maybe, today, something would change.