Evening settles softly over a Texas highway. The sun dips behind the mesquite trees, and Miller’s Roadside Diner hums with its familiar rhythm — the clink of silverware, the scent of coffee and bacon, the low hum of a jukebox song that’s outlived generations. It’s a place where time feels gentle and dependable, where regulars know each other’s names and new visitors are greeted with a nod.
At the window, in his usual seat, sits Harold Mitchell. He’s eighty-one, sharp in his pressed jacket and old service cap. Every day at 4:30, he arrives for his coffee, his quarters, and a quiet hour watching the light shift across the floor. The years may have softened his voice, but his posture and manners still carry the quiet dignity of someone who once stood for something larger than himself.
