When Darcy finally arrived—breathless, apologetic, and completely unaware of the shift that had just occurred—she found Abby and Diana sharing a single pastry, fingers brushing over the last crumb.
Diana laughed—a small, surprised sound. She gestured to the empty seat across from her. “Then sit. Darcy’s always late.”
Inside, the bell above the door chimed. Diana looked up. For a second, neither spoke.
“You're not Darcy,” Diana said, her voice low and curious.
Abby sat. The package in her coat pocket felt heavier now, but not in a bad way. Some meetings are accidents. Others are the universe finally getting tired of waiting.
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