Luna pulls off Route 9 just past midnight, somewhere between Ellsworth and nowhere, into a diner that shouldn't be there—a place called The Moonflower, with a cracked neon sign and a single waitress who looks like she hasn't slept in years. The pie is still warm. The coffee is fresh. And Luna learns about the regular who comes in every night at 1:47 AM, orders black coffee and a slice of lemon meringue, and leaves a wet footprint on the tile floor even when it hasn't rained. The waitress tells her the man died in a car crash on that same stretch of road in 1989. He never got his pie. Every night he comes back, sits in booth four, and waits. Luna stays until closing. She doesn't see him. But when she goes to the register to pay, the waitress says, 'He left a note for you.' The napkin has Luna's handwriting on it—words she hasn't written yet. A quiet, sinking episode about roads that loop, time that folds, and the things we leave unfinished.