Marlene's Café had not changed in forty-three years.
The same hand-painted sign hung above the door, its letters slightly faded but still legible. The same potted plant stood in the window—a real ficus now, not the plastic one that had occupied that spot for twelve years before root rot claimed it. The same chalkboard menu displayed the day's specials in Marlene's looping handwriting, the same mismatched chairs and crammed bookshelves and red vinyl booth in the corner where I had spent every Tuesday morning for seven years.
And behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron with the same brisk, familiar motion she had used since the day I first walked through her door with no memories and no identity and no idea who I was supposed to be, was Marlene.
"You're early," she said, not looking up from the batter she was stirring. "Tuesday isn't until tomorrow. You've never come on a Monday before."
"I needed to get out of the penthouse. Eleanor told me to."
