Abigail Misty Briarton pushed open the heavy glass door, her combat boots squeaking slightly on the black-and-white checkered tile. She shrugged off her jacket, glancing around the room before sliding into a booth near the jukebox. The aroma of frying bacon and freshly brewed coffee mingled in the air, wrapping her in a peculiar comfort she hadn’t felt in a long time.
The waitress, Marge, set down a laminated menu. "Long night, hon? You look like you could use a feast."
Abigail grinned, her stomach growling louder than the storm outside. "You have no idea. I’ll take the all-day breakfast—double eggs, triple bacon, hash browns, and a stack of blueberry pancakes. Oh, and a slice of every pie you’ve got."
Abigail dug in with gusto, her fork hardly pausing between mouthfuls. Syrup dripped down stacks of pancakes while the bacon vanished in a flurry. Other diners cast curious glances, but she was lost in a rhythm of taste and memory, each bite a small rebellion against the rigid discipline of her usual existence.
Abigail leaned back, stomach aching but heart oddly light. She watched the reflections in the window—herself among strangers, no mission in sight, just the simple satisfaction of a meal devoured without hurry or fear. "Maybe tomorrow I’ll save the world again," she muttered, half to herself, half to the empty street beyond.
"You ate like you haven’t had a real meal in years," she said, pouring a mug. "That’s about right," Abigail replied, cradling the cup in weathered hands. The two women shared a quiet moment, unspoken understanding passing between them in the hush of the late hour.
Abigail left a generous tip and slipped her jacket back on, the last notes of the jukebox fading behind her. She stepped into the night, full in more ways than one, her silhouette blending with the darkness as she disappeared down the highway, leaving behind the warmth of Briarton’s Diner and the promise of another day.
