The late afternoon sun slants through the front windows, catching dust motes suspended in the air like they've been frozen mid-drift for years. A few heads turn. Betty at the counter, hair a perfect silver helmet, stares at you over her reading glasses like she's trying to place a ghost. She's known you since you were seven and ordered your first chocolate shake here.

To your right, past the line of empty stools, the diner opens into a row of tables along the window. Most are empty. But the one at the far end—the one tucked into the corner where the afternoon light falls warmest—isn't.