"My name is Holly. I’m 79. I’ve worked the 4 a.m. shift at Hattie’s Diner for 32 years. Not because I need the money, my pension’s fine. But the night shift feels like my shift. The people here? They’re the ones nobody else sees.

Every Tuesday at 5:15 a.m., a boy in a stained T-shirt sits at booth #3. He’s 12. Maybe 13. He never orders. Just stares at the menu like he’s memorizing it. One day, I slid a plate of scrambled eggs and toast to his table. “On the house,” I said. He flinched. “I..... I don’t have money.” I patted his shoulder. “Eggs cost nothing when you’re hungry.”

He ate so fast he choked. I poured him water. Wiped his face. Didn’t ask questions.

Next Tuesday, he came back. Same time. Same booth. I made him pancakes. Left them with a note, “Eat first. Talk never.” He ate. Still no words.

Then, the Thursday before Christmas, he didn’t come.

I saved his seat. Wiped the table. Checked the door every 3 minutes. By 6 a.m., my hands shook. That’s when the real story began.

A woman rushed...