One of them knocked. Frost in his beard, eyes rimmed with road-tired red. “Ma’am, any chance we could get a coffee? Roads are closed. We won’t make the next stop.”

I hesitated. Running the place alone is hard on the best day, and a dozen hungry drivers sounded like a tidal wave. Then I heard my grandmother in my head: when in doubt, feed people. I flipped the deadbolt, flooded the room with light, and waved them in.

They stomped the snow off their boots and slid into booths without a word. I brewed a vat of coffee, then another, and before I knew it I was flipping pancakes and bacon like it was a Saturday rush. The quiet cracked. Laughter took its place. “Angel in an apron,” one of them said, and I pretended my cheeks weren’t hot.

We were strangers