The stranger stood just inside the door, rainwater dripping from his coat. He didn't shake it off. He didn't remove his hat. He just scanned the room. Then, he walked straight toward my booth.
"Mind if I sit?" His voice was calm, almost too calm.
I nodded reluctantly. Something in my gut told me to say no, but my body didn't listen.
He slid into the seat opposite me. His eyes were grey. Cold. Unblinking.
"I was hoping I'd find you here, Jack."
My heart skipped.
I had never seen this man before. Never. Yet he knew my name.
"You've grown up a lot," he added, almost as if talking to an old friend.
I tried to laugh it off. "I think you've got the wrong guy."
But his stare deepened. "I don't forget faces."
I wanted to leave, but my legs wouldn't move. My throat tightened.
Then he said, "Do you remember the red bicycle?"
The words hit like a gut punch. My mind spiraled back to that summer day—the sun blazing above us, the sound of laughter echoing through the woods, and the red bicycle lying on its side near the well. Sam had just dared me to ride down the hill without touching the brakes. I did. I fell. We all laughed until dusk fell and someone suggested the game—hide and seek, but with rules. Rules I can't fully recall.
And then Sam was gone.
"The red bicycle," I repeated under my breath, shaken by the memory that had surfaced like a ghost in the fog.
My blood ran cold. Only one person could've known about that bike.
And he disappeared twenty years ago.
Before I could ask more, the bell above the diner door jingled again. Another figure stepped in—hooded, soaked, cautious.
I recognized her instantly.
Sarah.
She hesitated in the doorway, then walked slowly toward us, her eyes fixed on Sam. Her face was pale, eyes rimmed red. She hadn't aged much, but the years had left their weight.
Without a word, she slid into the booth beside me.
Sam nodded at her like he'd expected this. "I'm glad you came."
None of us touched our food after that.