The narrator has worked the graveyard shift at the Starlight Diner for as long as they can remember. That should probably bother them more than it does—the not remembering. But the nights are long, and thinking too hard makes them longer.

The regulars make it bearable. Marla, who orders decaf at midnight and stares at headlights that never arrive. Doug the trucker, who nurses a single cup for hours. The teenager in the corner booth, hunched over a phone with no signal, hiding from something she can't outrun.

And Mr. Carroll. Every night at exactly 2:15 AM. Coffee and cherry pie. Five-dollar tip on a four-dollar check. A nod like they've shared something important.

Then the narrator finds a newspaper someone left on the counter. Mr. Carroll's face smiles from an obituary dated six months ago. Heart attack. Passed peacefully. No s ...