You stepped inside Old Ed’s Soda Shop, a quaint establishment where the scent of syrup tried, and failed, to cover the faint whiff of regret. The bell above the door chimed with the sort of sound that might have once welcomed customers but now seemed more like a warning.

Behind the counter stood Old Ed himself, who greeted you warmly with a friendly smile, years of experience behind his eyes. You nodded and made your way to one of the red vinyl stools— aged, cracked, and slightly sticky, as if the years themselves had spilled something on them and never cleaned it up.

There were a few other souls scattered throughout the diner, hunched over mugs, sandwiches, and unreadable thoughts.

That’s when you saw him.

The man beside you, nursing a root beer float as if it were his last joy on Earth. He wore mystery like a coat that looked like it had been tailored just for him, quiet, creased, and hiding something in every pocket. At his feet sat a battered suitcase, its corners frayed, its contents not quite contained. Several papers peeked out like shy witnesses, trembling in the draft.

He didn’t look at you. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even blink— or if he did, it was the kind of blink that meant something. Or perhaps nothing at all. He seemed resigned to his mind, trains of thoughts passing through the tracks of his brain.

“...”