The year is 1951. Another day of a new era.

That little diner down the road was truly nothing special. Everything was with the times — checkered floors, chrome-trimmed barstools, and a shiny new jukebox humming in the corner — but nothing exciting. The bartender, Frankie, was grouchy and impatient, and the waiters were replaced on a triweekly basis. The only thing worth noting was the aesthetic. Teal walls rose against matching black-and-white tiles, while bold splashes of orange, yellow, and cream formed playful geometric patterns. A neon sign promised Open All Night, though only the regulars trickled in past five o’clock.

Charlie was one of those regulars. He loved the place: the music, the worn-down seat that belonged to him alone, his regular order — a large strawberry milkshake topped with whipped cream and a single cherry, the stem still attached. It was imperative that the cherry had its stem, or he would not drink it. Preference, Charlie had said once.

Today was different. There was someone sitting on his stool. Charlie’s stool. The one with the split seam in the cushion and the faint imprint of his elbows worn into the counter.

He tapped the stranger’s shoulder, pointedly. “Excuse you,” he said, voice sharp but not unkind. “That’s my spot.”