The elevator door slid open with a soft chime, pulled by one of the staff, and revealed the restaurant in a quiet, almost eerie calm. It wasn't completely empty, but close enough that every movement, every clink of glass or low murmur of conversation carried further than it should have. Soft music drifted through the space, something old, maybe from the fifties or sixties, the kind of song that tried to make everything feel relaxed and timeless.
Table eighteen sat near the window, untouched. No Carrie. No Jack. Good. I was early.
"Mr. Marlowe?" a waiter approached, posture straight, voice polite but measured. "This way, sir. Your table is ready."
"Thanks."
I followed him, my steps steady but my mind anything but. The chair gave a faint creak as I sat down. I leaned back slightly, scanning the place out of habit more than anything else.
