The Last Supper at Cleo's

The spinach salad sat untouched between them, wilting under the fluorescent lights of the diner where they'd said goodbye five years ago. Mara smoothed the tablecloth with trembling fingers. Across from her, Thomas watched the way the orange neon sign through the window fractured against his water glass, casting strange shadows across his face.

"You look like a fox," she said softly. "Always watching, always waiting to bolt."

Thomas laughed, but the sound caught in his throat. "Some animals don't get to choose when they run."

Outside, a real fox slipped through the alley behind the restaurant, its red coat bright against the concrete. Inside, Mara thought about the riddle she'd been living with since the diagnosis — something like a sphinx's curse, except the answer wasn't a name but a question: how much time was enough?

"Remember when we saw that bear in Montana?" Thomas asked suddenly. "You were so terrified, but you wouldn't let go of my hand."

"I wasn't afraid of the bear," Mara said. "I was afraid you'd let go first."

The spinach between them grew warmer. She thought about all the meals they'd never share, all the restaurants they'd never try. The unfairness of it sat like a stone in her chest, heavy and immutable.

Thomas reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. "I'm not going anywhere tonight."

"No," she said, squeezing his hand. "But you will."

The waiter refilled their water glasses. The orange glow of the sign painted them both in amber light. Outside, the fox disappeared into the darkness, and somewhere beyond the city, mountains rose like ancient sphinxes guarding secrets far older than either of them.

Mara took a deep breath and picked up her fork. "Eat your spinach," she said. "It's getting warm."

Thomas smiled, and for a moment, everything was exactly as it had been before everything changed.