The bell above the diner door jingled with its usual mechanical cheer as Mia slipped behind the counter. The morning rush had faded into a slower lull, with only a handful of patrons scattered across booths, sipping refills or reading folded newspapers. The scent of burnt toast clung to the air, masking the ever-present undertone of fryer oil and bleach.
Linda was already there, wiping down the sugar dispensers with casual ease. Her auburn curls were pinned back messily, her smile effortless.
"Hey, stranger," she greeted Mia. "You're early."
"Just needed to be here," Mia replied, attempting lightness.
Linda raised an eyebrow but didn't pry. "We got gossip this morning," she said, tilting her head toward the breakroom. "Someone said the Watson girl's dad is in hot water again. Property dispute or something."
Mia's pulse quickened.
"What kind of dispute?" she asked, trying to sound detached.
Linda shrugged, setting the sugar down. "Neighbor said she saw city folks come by. Zoning or taxes maybe? Said Sarah's mom looked pale."
Mia nodded slowly, as if this was idle curiosity. But her thoughts were already sprinting. Sarah's home had already been unstable. If legal scrutiny increased, attention would follow. And attention was dangerous.
Linda poured two coffees and slid one toward Mia. "You look tired," she said. "Did you sleep?"
Mia offered a thin smile. "I don't really remember."
Linda leaned her elbows on the counter, chin propped in her hand. "You ever get the feeling you're forgetting stuff you should remember?"
Mia's fingers curled around the coffee cup. "All the time."
"Yeah?" Linda chuckled, then looked out the window. "Like I'll walk into a room and forget what I went in for. Or I'll tell someone a story and then realize I already told it."
Mia tried to smile. "Maybe we're just all living the same day over and over."
Linda grinned. "Now that's depressing."
The conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence. A family walked in—mother, toddler, and a teenager clutching a sketchpad. Linda stood to greet them. Mia scribbled a quick note in her journal beneath the counter:
Interaction: Linda. Level 2 Blur. Subject proximity: Sarah.
Note: Verify if Linda can be trusted. Reserve future disclosures.
Her handwriting trembled slightly. Not from fear, but from something stranger—uncertainty about whether she'd already written it once before.
She flipped back a few pages.
There it was: a nearly identical entry. Same structure. Same words.
Level 2 Blur. Subject proximity: Sarah.
Echo.
She exhaled slowly and closed the journal.
When Linda returned, she wiped her hands on a towel. "Anyway," she said, dropping back into their orbit, "a reporter's been poking around Sarah's block. Tall guy, weird haircut. Says he's doing a story on education programs."
Mia stiffened.
"Reporter?"
"Yeah. Real nosy. Asked if anyone knew where she volunteers."
Mia stirred her coffee without drinking. "Did you say anything?"
Linda gave her a long, curious look. "Nah. I'm not big on talking to strangers. Especially not ones with recording devices."
Relief fluttered through Mia's chest, quick and quiet. But not total.
"Good," she said softly.
Linda leaned in. "You really care about that kid, huh?"
Mia didn't respond.
Linda didn't press.
A truck rumbled past outside, shaking the window glass faintly in its frame. Mia's gaze lingered on the dust motes dancing in the sunlight.
She couldn't be sure how much Linda saw. Or remembered. But the rhythm of her voice, the cadence of her words, felt eerily familiar. Like déjà vu stretched taut.
When Mia left the counter to refill table four's coffee, her thoughts swam. A new player had entered the field. And Linda, warm as she seemed, was now a variable to watch.
She logged it in the journal.
Memory Blur Level 2 confirmed. Correlation drift increasing. Refrain from over-engagement.
The words "correlation drift" were underlined. Twice.
At the register, Linda laughed at something a customer said. Her voice was bright, familiar.
But Mia could no longer tell if she'd heard that exact laugh yesterday or only remembered it wrong.
When her shift ended, she stepped outside into a still afternoon. The light had turned golden behind thin clouds. The breeze held a trace of the ocean, even this far inland.
Mia took the long way home. Her shoes scuffed the edge of the sidewalk as she walked, replaying Linda's words again and again.
That kid. You really care about that kid, huh?
The phrase echoed longer than it should have.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a receipt from the morning. It had a scribble on the back. Linda's handwriting.
"Coffee's on me next time."
Had she seen that before?
Or had she dreamed it?
At the corner near the community center, she paused. A group of school kids were hanging signs for a play. One banner was crooked. The color bled in the sun.
Mia stood and stared at it for a full minute, unsure if she'd seen that banner yesterday. Or if tomorrow would show it again.
Then she opened her journal and wrote:
Correlated Moments x2. Minor echo. No collapse. But close.
She tapped the page with her pen.
Underneath, she wrote:
If Linda is real, she remembers.
If not, I'm alone.
She closed the book, placed her hand against the cool brick wall of the center, and whispered, "Stay anchored."
And hoped the words would stick.
------------------
New Term:
Memory Blur Level — A self-assessed index used by Mia to track her memory degradation due to time disruptions, ranging from Level 1 (minor confusion) to Level 5 (severe blackouts).