The diner hummed softly with an old rock tune, the kind that made you think of long drives and open roads. Sunlight streamed through the big windows, casting a warm glow over the worn-out vinyl booths.
It was just past two o’clock when I noticed her. A tiny girl, no more than six, her arms marred with bruises, slipped hurriedly into the restroom.
Her movement was quick, almost frantic, and it pulled my attention like a magnet.
The regulars in the diner continued their routine, sipping coffee, chatting idly. It was a place where I blended in, just another tattooed biker trying to keep to himself.
But when her voice trembled from the cramped stall, I couldn’t turn away.
“Help me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the diner.
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
Why had she chosen me?
My eyes flicked to the waitress, who glanced at the bathroom door before quickly looking away, as if she knew but didn’t want to see.
Silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating.
