A Loose Thread

The rain softened to a quiet mist outside the window, and Edna’s eyelids fluttered. The room around her dimmed, the edges melting into a soft, warm blur. Somewhere in that drifting haze, she slipped into a place that felt… familiar.

A diner.

Chrome trim, red vinyl booths, the smell of bacon and old coffee. A jukebox in the corner hummed faintly, something from the sixties. And across from her — Henry. Older, gentler, his hair gone silver, cheeks sagging but eyes bright. He smiled the way she always wished he had, the way he rarely did in life.

“Well now,” he chuckled, lifting a cocktail glass. “Didn’t expect we’d be out for a drink today, Edna.”

Her own hand wrapped around a cold glass, condensation slipping under her fingertips. A Manhattan. She used to love those. The cherry glowed like a ruby inside the amber liquid.

It felt real. So real.

But her pulse fluttered with unease. Something wrong tugged at the edge of her mind, like a loose thread she couldn’t stop touching.

“Henry,” she whispered, her voice thin. “Aren’t you… aren’t you—”

He leaned forward, placing his warm, wrinkled hand over hers. “Don’t worry about that,” he said softly. “Just be here with me.”

The clatter of dishes echoed from behind the counter. A waitress passed by, but her face was blurry, smudged like a painting left out in the rain. Edna blinked, tried to focus, but the diner lights shimmered, flickering between sunshine and shadow.

Henry laughed at something — she wasn’t sure what — and lifted his drink again. His hand was steady, strong. But Edna felt her stomach twist.

“Henry,” she said again, firmer this time. “You’ve been gone for years.”

He paused mid-sip, glass halfway to his mouth. His smile held, but his eyes darkened just slightly, like clouds drifting in front of the sun.

“Have I?” he murmured.

The jukebox crackled. The lights dimmed. For one heartbeat, Henry’s face blurred — young, then old, then gaunt on a kitchen floor, then smiling again across the diner table.

Edna’s breath caught. The air thickened around her, turning syrupy, hard to swallow.

She pressed her hand to her temple. “I don’t… I don’t know what’s real,” she said, voice trembling.

Henry reached out again, fingertips brushing her cheek.

“Does it matter?” he asked gently. “You’re here now. That’s enough.”

But was she?

The clink of glasses faded. The sound of rain seeped in, whispering through the seams of the dream. The diner dissolved around her like watercolor in a storm. Henry’s outline grew faint.

“Don’t go,” she begged, though she wasn’t sure if she meant him or herself.

He mouthed something — a word, a promise, or maybe just her name — but the sound never reached her.

And then—

The diner vanished.

Edna opened her eyes to the gray world outside her window, her breath sharp and uneven. The urn on the table sat quietly where it always had. The rain drew long streaks down the glass.

Henry was gone.
He had been gone.
And yet she could still taste the Manhattan on her tongue.

She stared at the window, lost again, drifting between worlds — unsure which moments were memories and which were dreams, or whether, in the end, there was even a difference.