The morning of the one-year anniversary dawned gray and heavy, the kind of overcast that made the world feel muted. Daniel woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window and the hollow silence of an apartment that still, after all these months, felt too big.
He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the weight to settle on his chest. It came, as it always did, but it was duller now—an old bruise rather than a fresh wound.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Claire:
"Call me if you need anything today. Or if Luke does."
Daniel sighed and dragged himself upright. He didn't bother responding. Claire meant well, but today wasn't about being managed.
The hallway was dark, but a sliver of light spilled from under Luke's door. Daniel knocked softly.
"Yeah?"
Luke's voice was rough, like he'd been awake for hours. Daniel pushed the door open to find him sitting cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by a sea of papers—homework, college brochures, a half-finished application to a school in Oregon.
"You sleep at all?" Daniel asked.
Luke shrugged. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair sticking up in every direction. "Got some stuff done."
Daniel leaned against the doorframe. "Today's—"
"I know."
Silence.
Daniel cleared his throat. "I was thinking we could go to that diner she liked. The one with the terrible pie."
Luke blinked. "Not the cemetery?"
"No." Daniel shook his head. "I don't think she'd want us moping over a headstone."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Luke's lips. "She would yell at us for being dramatic."
"Yeah." Daniel shoved his hands in his pockets. "So. Diner?"
Luke hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
The diner was exactly as they remembered it—vinyl booths cracked with age, the smell of burnt coffee and bacon grease thick in the air. They slid into their usual booth, the one by the window where Lila used to sit so she could people-watch.
"God, I forgot how depressing this place is," Luke muttered, picking up a sticky menu.
Daniel snorted. "She loved it because it was 'authentic.'"
"Authentically gross."
The waitress—a woman with a name tag that read Dolores and a voice like a chainsaw—strolled over. "Coffee?"
"Please," Daniel said.
"Two," Luke added.
Dolores raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. She returned a moment later with two mugs and a pot of coffee so black it looked like tar.
Luke dumped three sugars into his. "Remember when she tried to convince us the pie here was good?"
Daniel grimaced. "I remember the food poisoning."
Luke laughed—a real, startled sound—and just like that, the tension eased.
They ordered the same thing they always had: pancakes for Luke, a greasy omelet for Daniel. And, because it felt wrong not to, a slice of the infamous cherry pie.
When the food arrived, Daniel raised his coffee mug. "To Lila."
Luke clinked his mug against it. "To not being dramatic."
They ate in comfortable silence, the rain pattering against the window, the diner's old jukebox playing some country song from the '90s. For the first time in a year, the memory of her didn't feel like a knife to the ribs.
It just felt like love.