Her name was Evelyn Harper, and for nearly a decade she had been as much a fixture of the Sunshine Diner as the faded red vinyl seats or the bell above the door. She always chose the same booth by the window, always ordered the same breakfast—two eggs over easy, toast dry, coffee black—and always folded her napkin into a perfect square, placing it beside her plate with a care that suggested she was honoring something far older than the meal itself, perhaps a memory of dinners shared long ago with someone who was no longer there to notice.Continue reading…
