The diner smelled of grease and burnt coffee. The wall-mounted clock ticked past noon with a dull, unbothered rhythm. Mia sat alone in a corner booth, steam curling from the lip of her tea. Her eyes weren't on her drink though—they were on the bulletin board near the register, where layers of fliers clung like molted skin.
At first, it was idle scanning. She needed noise, background hum, to distract from the pressure pressing behind her ribs. But then a phrase caught her ear.
"Deadline's next Thursday. If you don't get it in, you're basically toast."
The voice came from two booths over. Two young women in community college hoodies leaned in over their fries and sodas, voices lowered but insistent. One tapped her phone screen and read aloud: "Application for spring transfer consideration closes March 17. No exceptions."
Mia froze. That was six days from now.
Her gaze darted back to the board. Among the frayed papers and pushpins, a bright blue flyer blinked like a signal flare: "TRANSFER DEADLINE—MARK YOUR CALENDARS."
She rose quietly, slipping her mug to the side, and moved toward the board with practiced casualness. Her fingers fished a napkin from the dispenser as she walked, and she leaned forward, as if studying the wall. With her left hand, she pretended to brush hair behind her ear. With her right, she scribbled on the napkin.
March 17 — TRANSFER
Form location: Registrar's window
Clerk: Benson
She paused at the last word. Benson. The name pricked something old and uneasy in her memory, but she couldn't place it. She underlined it anyway. Twice.
Behind her, the voices continued.
"I almost missed it last year. The system glitched. Didn't even send out reminders."
"Yeah, they don't babysit anymore. You miss it, you're out."
Mia folded the napkin with surgical care and slipped it into her coat pocket.
Back in her booth, her tea had cooled.
She didn't touch it.
Instead, she pulled her journal from the satchel beneath the table and flipped to the latest index page. A clean line waited for her next entry.
Intervention Note 38-A
Location: Diner bulletin
Date logged: March 11
Target: Sarah W. — Spring Transfer Eligibility
Strategy: Passive reminder drop — napkin or notebook insertion (TBD)
Her pen hovered. She added, almost reluctantly:
Risk Factor: Medium — dependent on third-party processing (Benson)
She tapped the pen to the page. The name echoed again. Benson.
Something about a brown leather chair. A sliding glass partition. A glance that lingered too long.
No time for ghosts.
She turned the page and began sketching layout possibilities for Sarah's kitchen desk. Where to leave the napkin. What clutter could camouflage it. How to ensure it wouldn't be discarded as trash.
The diner bell rang, but Mia didn't look up.
A waitress stopped by her booth and refilled the tea without asking. Mia murmured thanks.
Outside, sunlight danced off parked car windshields. A breeze kicked up a loose receipt across the sidewalk. Another deadline. Another storm to manage.
But this one, she could catch in time.
She glanced down at the napkin again. Her handwriting looked rushed. She'd need to copy it more cleanly before planting it.
Still, the urgency pulsed beneath her skin.
She wouldn't let Sarah miss this.
Not like Mia had.
—
Later that evening, back at Sarah's apartment, the desk was cluttered but familiar. A perfect mess.
Mia moved through the space quietly, her presence no more than a flicker in the corner of the room. She'd already tested two positions — near the lamp base, under the keyboard — but neither felt right.
Then she saw the planner.
Open. Half-filled. Its ribbon bookmark hung lazily from the spine.
She eased the napkin from her coat. Folded precisely now, with clean lettering.
She slid it beneath the planner's back cover, just enough to peek from the edge. Just enough to be noticed.
She stood back.
Waited.
Footsteps upstairs. Water running. Then silence.
Her time was up.
She turned to go but paused at the door. Something made her glance back.
On the fridge, a magnet held up a childlike doodle of a star.
The word beside it: Believe.
She allowed herself a single nod.
The deadline wouldn't be missed.
Not this time.
She lingered for a moment longer, letting the ambient warmth of the room settle into her. The hum of the refrigerator, the faint buzz of a phone charging on the nightstand, the subtle creak of pipes through the walls — all mundane sounds, yet to Mia, each felt like a heartbeat.
The kind of heartbeat that meant someone was still here. Still choosing. Still trying.
She stepped lightly past Sarah's door. Inside, a soft rustle of paper—Sarah shifting in bed, perhaps flipping through a notebook, perhaps drawing. Mia didn't intrude.
Instead, she made her way to the entryway, took one last glance at the desk.
The napkin still peeked from under the planner.
Perfect.
As Mia reached for the door handle, the floorboard creaked faintly beneath her. She froze, glancing over her shoulder.
No movement from the hallway. No change in light.
Still safe.
She took a breath, then let herself out.
Into the hallway, into the night.
Outside, the wind had picked up, rustling the trees that lined the street. A distant siren echoed between buildings. Mia tucked her coat tighter around herself and walked.
Each step purposeful.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
The message was planted.
And Sarah was ready.
Somewhere above, a curtain moved faintly—just a shift, like breath caught in fabric. Mia didn't see it. But something inside her stilled.
And far behind her, in the quiet room, the edge of the napkin shifted, barely noticeable, disturbed not by hands—but by possibility.
A ceiling fan hummed overhead, stirring the pages of Sarah's planner. Its weight shifted slightly, just enough that the napkin slid a fraction farther into view.
A breeze filtered in from a cracked window, brushing the corner of a page that read "March."
Sarah didn't stir. Not yet.
But morning would come.
And with it, a choice.
Not a demand.
Not a summons.
Just the open door.
And this time, Mia would wait—not in the shadows, not behind the page, but in the possibility that Sarah would choose to walk through.
And in that quiet hour before dawn, when all things still tremble on the edge of becoming, a light clicked on behind a windowpane upstairs.
Faint, but steady.