The drive down Colfax Avenue felt endless.

The neon sign of the Bluebird Diner buzzed in the grey afternoon light.

I parked in the alley behind the building.

I walked inside, the smell of grease and burnt coffee wrapping around me.

The diner was mostly empty, save for an old man at the counter reading a newspaper.

I walked past the empty booths, my boots squeaking on the wet linoleum.

In the very last booth, near the emergency exit, sat a woman.

She wore a heavy knit hat pulled low over her forehead and a dark green scarf.

She was holding a thick ceramic mug in both hands, staring down at the black coffee inside.

As I approached, she looked up.

Her eyes were tired, surrounded by dark circles.

It was Melanie.

She looked thinner than she had in her old company headshot, her cheeks hollow.

“Anne,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Melanie,” I said, sliding into the booth opposite her.

The vinyl seat groaned under my weight.

I kept my coat on, shivering slightly.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, looking toward the window.