The waitress, a kindly woman with a weary smile, approached our table.
“Everything alright here?” she asked, her gaze shifting gently between us.
“We’re good,” I replied, “just warming up a bit.”
She nodded knowingly, her eyes lingering on the little girl. “If you need anything, just holler.”
“Thank you,” I said, appreciating the unspoken understanding.
As the little girl sipped her drink, I watched the world outside, the snow falling steadily under the streetlights. My mind wandered, wondering how she had ended up here, alone on Christmas night.
“Do you remember anything about where you were before?” I asked gently, trying not to pressure her.
She hesitated, the question hanging in the air like a fragile thread.
“There was a big tree,” she said finally, her voice small but certain. “With lots of lights.”
I nodded, encouraging her to continue. “Anything else?”
“And music,” she added, a hint of a smile touching her lips. “There was music playing.”
A Christmas party, perhaps, I thought, trying to piece together the fragments of her memory.
“We’ll find it,” I assured her, hoping to keep her spirits up.
Her eyes met mine, a shared understanding passing between us. She trusted me to see her through this night.
The minutes ticked by, and I could see her eyelids drooping, the warmth and comfort of the diner lulling her into a sense of safety.
“You can rest if you want,” I said softly. “I’ve got you.”
She nodded, her head resting against the back of the booth, her small body finally relaxing.
As she drifted off, I promised myself I would do whatever it took to get her back where she belonged.
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