It's late October, just before sunrise, on a stretch of New Mexico highway where the road signs don't match the map. Luna stops at a diner that shouldn't be open — a low beige building with a single flickering 'OPEN' sign and a gravel lot that holds exactly three cars, all dust-covered, all from different decades. Inside, a waitress named Doreen works the graveyard shift alone. She's been working it for forty-two years. She doesn't remember when the last customer left before Luna walked in. She doesn't remember the menu changing. She pours coffee from a pot that never empties and talks about the night in 1982 when a man came in, sat in booth four, and waited for someone who never arrived. Luna stays until the light comes, and when she leaves, the diner is gone — just a patch of gravel and a faded sign for a gas station that closed in 1975. A quiet, lingering episode about time, loneliness, and the places that remember us longer than we remember them.