Just Out of Reach

The rain pressed on, steady and relentless, its rhythm soothing and unsettling all at once. Edna watched it trail down the window in silver threads, her mind drifting like a small boat unmoored. Reality softened. The room dimmed.

And without warning, she was back in the diner.

Not the same one as before — or maybe it was, but changed, rearranged by memory’s uncertain hand. The lights were warmer this time, golden, glowing like honey. The vinyl seats looked newer, less cracked. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and whiskey.

A night that never happened.
A place that never was.

Yet it felt familiar, carved out of longing rather than truth.

Henry sat across from her again, older than some memories, younger than others. His hair was darker at the temples tonight. His shirt had no wrinkles. His eyes were kind — too kind, in a way that tugged at her chest.

“Back again, Edna?” he teased, swirling the ice in his glass.
Like this happened all the time.
Like she hadn’t watched him fade from her life years ago.

She blinked slowly, looking down at the drink in front of her. A highball this time. Amber, fizzy, a slice of lemon drifting like a tiny moon on its surface.

“I… don’t remember coming here,” she murmured.

Henry chuckled, a warm, rolling sound she barely recognized.
“You wanted a night out. Just you and me. No worries, no past, no future. It’s a good night, isn’t it?”

Edna looked around. The diner windows were fogged from the inside, the world beyond them lost to darkness and rain. The waitress passed again, still faceless, but this time humming an old tune — something Edna faintly remembered dancing to in her twenties.

“But this didn’t happen,” she whispered. “None of this ever happened.”

Henry leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze soft.
“Who says it didn’t?”

She swallowed, throat tight. “I would’ve remembered.”

“Would you?” he asked gently.

The jukebox clicked, changing songs. A slow melody filled the room — bittersweet, like a lullaby sung too late in life. Henry reached out his hand, palm up, just as he once did when they were young and still believed in long futures.

Edna hesitated. Her hand trembled.

“Henry,” she said, voice cracking, “why are you here?”

He gave a wistful, crooked smile — the smile he had when he first asked her to dance in a bar decades ago. “Because you wanted me here.”

The diner lights flickered. The rain outside whispered louder, as if trying to reach her through the fog of her mind.

Edna looked at him — really looked. He was perfect here, perfectly wrong. Polished. Gentle. The man he had never quite been. The man she had hoped he could be.

Her eyes stung.
“This isn’t real,” she said.

Henry’s figure wavered, just slightly.
“No,” he agreed softly. “But I’m real to you.”

Thunder rolled in the distance — or maybe it was the kettle in her living room, or her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. The edges of the diner blurred. The song slowed, stretched thin. Henry’s outline dimmed like a candle losing its flame.

“Don’t go,” she whispered again, reaching for him.

He touched her fingertips — warm, solid for a heartbeat — and then his hand dissolved into smoke.

The diner collapsed into darkness.

Edna gasped. The window was back. The rain, the gray sky, the urn on the table. Her hands were empty. The air felt colder than before.

She pressed her palm against the glass, tracing the path of a raindrop as it slid down.

A night that never happened.
A memory that wasn’t real.
And Henry — always almost there.

Her breathing steadied, slow and thin.

The rain continued, pulling her deeper into its rhythm.

And somewhere in that steady fall, the diner waited for her again — just out of reach, just a dream away.