My husband left five years ago, right after our daughter died. He said he couldn’t breathe in the house anymore. I didn’t stop him. I barely spoke. Grief hollowed me out, and the diner became the only thing keeping me upright.

Bills piled up. The bank started calling. Every morning, I unlocked the door wondering if it would be the day I finally gave up and sold the place my grandfather built.

That night was one of the coldest of the year. Snow pressed against the windows like a warning. I’d already turned the chairs upside down on two tables and was counting the register when the bell above the door rang.

My heart jumped.

“Please,” I whispered to no one, “let it be the buyer.”