The rain fell in a steady rhythm, a whisper against the fabric of Tasha Kinley’s umbrella. She knelt before the tombstone, careful not to let the damp earth stain her dress, and laid the bouquet of lilies at its base. The white petals, pristine and delicate, seemed untouched by the drizzle.
She let out a slow breath, watching it fog in the cold air. The inscription on the stone was familiar, yet foreign: ‘Let morning start with a touch of promise’. Tasha didn’t remember writing that. She had spent hours at the funeral home, agonizing over every word, every detail. Yet this—this line—had not come from her. She had asked the engraver once, but he only shrugged, saying that was how the request had come in.
For years, she had meant to change it. But she never did. Maybe because, deep down, she felt it belonged. Like some unseen hand had placed it there for a reason. In their town, things like that happened. A quiet gesture. An anonymous kindness. Fate, working in small and subtle ways.
Tasha stood, shaking off the chill, and turned away from the grave. The rain kept falling. She headed to the diner three blocks down and went around to the back door.
“Tasha!” Zavier made a beeline for her as soon as she stepped inside. He came over as she was putting on her apron and whispered in her ear. “Harris is here. He wants to ask you about those people who have been disappearing around town.”
“Oh?” She turned to the sink and spoke over her shoulder. “Let me wash my hands right quick.” Zavier nodded and rushed over to the grill. Tasha made quick work of washing her hands. She grabbed a clean towel and rushed to the front of the diner.
Detective Harris approached the counter when he spotted her, removing his hat and giving Tasha a nod. Though his presence carried the weight of authority, there was an ease to him, like he belonged here just as much as any regular.
“Afternoon, Tasha.” His voice was steady, familiar.
She offered a polite smile as she wiped her hands on the dish towel. “Afternoon, Detective. Coffee?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Tempting, but I’m here on business.” He flipped open his notepad. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about some folks that’ve gone missing.”
Tasha nodded, tucking a stray curl of hair behind her ear. “Of course. I’ll help however I can.”
Harris glanced at his notes. “Caleb Dunn, Marcy Lowry, Jim Baines, and Ellen Finch. Ring any bells?”
Tasha frowned slightly, thinking. “I… Yes, actually. I served all of them.”
Harris looked up. “You’re sure?”
She nodded slowly, a crease forming between her brows. “Saturday nights. I work every Saturday.”
“Do you remember anything unusual about them?” His voice was gentle, but there was a keen edge to his eyes.
Tasha shook her head. “Not at all. Just regular customers.”
Harris tapped his pen against the notepad, exhaling through his nose. “Strange. Seems like they all passed through here before vanishing. No common thread, no connection—except this place.”
Tasha folded her arms, a small shiver running down her spine. “I wish I could tell you something useful, Detective.”
Harris studied her for a moment, then gave a small, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Tasha. I’m just covering my bases.”
She nodded with a smile. “Alright. If there’s anything else I’m here every Saturday evening. The detective placed his hat back on and nodded to Tasha before heading to the exit. Tasha turned to grab a pen and a pad of paper to begin taking orders and she froze.
As if on cue, the clock on the wall clicked into place—5:05 p.m. Tasha sighed with a slight frown. Memories of her mother kept her rooted under the clock. Same day and time. On a Saturday just like today, she had left the art studio to visit her mother. The Styrofoam cup full of freshly brewed coffee warmed her hand. She opened the door to the aroma of meatloaf and her stomach growled hungrily. She called teasingly to her mother and peeked her head in the doorway…. Who would have thought, that would be the last time she saw her mom. She’d had a heart attack there in front of the stove. It was a Saturday at 5:05pm.
The chime of the silver bell over the restaurant’s door pulled her back to the present. Ford Calwell stepped inside, shaking off the lingering mist from his coat. He was hard to miss—broad-shouldered, a little rough around the edges, his salt-and-pepper hair damp from the fading rain. His boots left faint prints on the worn wooden floor, and the scent of the cold air clung to him.
He carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who knew his place in the world, but there was something about him today—something slightly off. His eyes, sharp and knowing, swept over the room, lingering on Tasha for a beat too long before he strode toward his usual seat by the window.
Tasha approached Ford’s table with a warm but curious expression. He was still shaking off the cold, rubbing his hands together as if to chase away a lingering chill.
“What can I get you, Ford?” she asked, tilting her head.
Ford huffed out a laugh, leaning back against the chair. “Now that’s a loaded question.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, smirking. “Let’s see… I’d love a plane ticket that would fly me across the country on a budget I can actually afford. And maybe have the airport be within driving distance so my old car doesn’t break down before I even get there.”
Tasha chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, I can’t get you that, but how about the regular for now? And I’ll help you pray on the rest.”
“Fair enough,” Ford said with a grin.
As she turned to leave, she gave his hand a brief squeeze—just a fleeting touch, warm and familiar, like a whisper of comfort. Ford didn’t think much of it at first, but a peculiar warmth lingered, spreading through his palm like the ghost of a fire’s dying embers.
—
Later that night, Ford stood in his dimly lit bedroom, running a towel over his damp hair. The weight of another long day sat heavy on his shoulders, but something felt… different.
His gaze drifted to the nightstand.
He froze.
A plane ticket lay there, crisp and unblemished, beside a set of unfamiliar car keys. His name was printed clearly on the boarding pass, the flight set to depart early in the morning.
Ford’s breath hitched. His fingers traced the edges of the ticket, disbelief curling around his thoughts like mist.
His mind reeled, unearthing memories: Tasha’s gentle touch, the small but firm press of her hand against his. The town’s quiet murmurs of how her mother had a magic touch, how things just seemed to happen around her—favors granted, lost things found, wishes answered in the most unexpected ways.
His palm still felt warm.
The choice had already been made.
Without hesitation, Ford grabbed his bag, stuffed it with essentials, and walked out the door. His new car waited for him outside, sleek and waiting under the glow of the streetlamp.
He turned the key in the ignition, listening as the engine purred to life.
Then, without looking back, he drove toward the future he never thought he could have.
