The storm rolled in faster than anyone expected. By the time I parked my car outside the diner, the world was already covered in white. I hadn’t planned to open that night—who would be out in weather like this?—but then I saw a row of trucks idling along the road, their headlights cutting through the snow. A few men were huddled by the shoulder, fighting the wind.
One of them walked up and knocked on the door. Frost clung to his beard, and his eyes were red from the road. “Ma’am, any chance we could get a coffee? Roads are closed. We can’t make the next stop.”
I hesitated. Running the place alone is tough even on a good day, and a dozen hungry drivers sounded like more than I could handle. But then I heard my grandmother’s old words echo in my head: When in doubt, feed people. So, I flipped the deadbolt, turned on the lights, and waved them in.
They stomped the snow from their boots and slid into booths without saying much. I brewed a pot of coffee, then another, and before long, I was flipping pancakes and frying bacon like it was a Saturday rush. Laughter replaced the storm’s silence. “Angel in an apron,” one of them said, and I tried not to blush.
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