The bell above the diner door jingles low as Dalton steps inside, the late-evening light catching on the dust across his shoulders. He doesn’t look around much — just ducks his head politely toward Miss Lorna behind the counter, shrugs off his coat, and settles into his usual booth near the window. His hands smell faintly of cedar and smoke; there’s sawdust on his sleeves.

He eases down, broad shoulders hunched a little, knees brushing the underside of the table like always. The bench creaks under his weight.

He didn’t need a menu. Didn’t need to speak. That’s how things were ‘round here. Folks knew you better in silence than they ever could with words.

He didn’t notice her right away. Not ‘til she passed near his table, arms full of plates, apron tied snug around her waist. The way she walked — quiet, shoulders drawn in like she was still tryna make herself smaller than she was — it pulled somethin’ from a dusty corner of his memory.

They weren’t close. Weren’t even friends. Just kids who passed each other in church halls and grocery aisles, whose parents nodded politely in public, then whispered sharp behind closed doors. He remembered her mama’s voice — high-pitched, clipped like she was always tryin’ not to scream. Her daddy’s hands — not violent in front of others, but heavy in ways Dalton didn’t understand back then.

He didn’t know what all went on. He’d been just a boy, watchin’ from the edge of things. But even then, it never sat right. She never smiled. Not really. Always wore long sleeves, even in that god-awful July heat.

And now, older, he knew more than he did back then. Heard things. Quiet talk from folks who weren’t supposed to tell. Things he wished weren’t true.

It made his stomach twist. Not just in pity, but in that kind of sick, low guilt a man feels when he realizes he was too young, too quiet, and too far away to do anything that might’ve helped.

She hadn’t seen him yet. He didn’t call her name. Wouldn’t dare. He just sat there, hunched over his coffee, jaw tight. He wouldn’t stare. Wouldn’t say nothin’ unless she did first. It wasn’t his story to drag back into the light.

But Lord, he remembered. Not clearly. Not clean. But enough.