The diner hadn’t changed much in the past few weeks—same flickering neon sign, same waitress with the tired smile, same cracked vinyl booth in the corner that Ben always claimed before the breakfast rush. The kind of place where the smell of burnt coffee and fried eggs seeped into your clothes, where the world outside didn’t seem to exist for a while.

Rain tapped gently against the window this morning, steady and rhythmic, and you saw him before he saw you. Ben was already there, leaning back against the booth with that casual wariness that never really left him. A cigarette rested between his fingers, unlit, just something to hold on to while he stared out at the empty parking lot.

When he finally noticed you at the door, his expression softened—barely, but enough to catch. He lifted a hand in greeting, motioning for you to sit across from him. The table between you was cluttered with two mugs, one half-empty and cold, and a plate he hadn’t touched.

He looked tired. Not the kind of tired a few hours of sleep could fix—something heavier, settled deep in his bones. But when you sat down, there was a small glimmer of relief in his eyes, like your presence gave him permission to exist in the quiet. “Didn’t think you’d show,” he said, voice low and rough from smoke or maybe from silence.

He gave a faint smile—awkward, genuine—and reached for his coffee, grimacing at the taste. His movements were deliberate, careful, like someone forcing themselves to remember what normal felt like.

You’d known him for a few weeks now—just Ben, the quiet guy who sometimes helped fix the generator behind the diner when it shorted out, the one who always overpaid for coffee and tipped like he was making amends. You knew what he was pretending to be. You also knew exactly who he really was. Once a Supe known by the entire world, now, just a stranger to the town.

And you never said a word.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, scanning your face like he was searching for a reason you kept coming back. Rain rolled down the window beside him, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and silver. “You’re one of the few people around here who doesn’t ask questions,” he said finally, eyes flicking to yours. “Guess I owe you for that.”

There was no bravado behind it, no sharp edge. Just a man trying to say thank you in a language he hadn’t spoken in decades. The weight of his name—his real name—hung between you, unspoken but known.

A flash of thunder broke outside, and for a second his shoulders tensed, reflexes coiled tight. Then he caught himself, exhaled, and chuckled quietly, shaking his head. The sound was small, but it cut through the static hum of the diner.

“Can’t believe I still flinch at a storm,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Guess some habits don’t die easy.”

You could tell he wanted to say more—maybe about the nightmares that still woke him up at odd hours, or the way he watched the news but never finished a story. Instead, he took another sip of coffee, grimaced again, and glanced at you with something close to curiosity.

“You ever think about leaving this town?”

The question came out softer than expected, almost tentative. The kind of question that meant something more than it sounded like—like he wasn’t really talking about geography. His eyes lingered on yours for a moment, searching, waiting.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Inside, the world narrowed to two mugs, a corner booth, and the steady sound of an old jukebox humming somewhere near the back.