The storm came without mercy. By the time I pulled into the diner parking lot, snow was falling in thick, blinding sheets, swallowing the world in silence. The plan was to close early — no one would be foolish enough to drive in weather like this. But then I saw them: a row of trucks lined along the shoulder, headlights glowing faintly through the flurries. Men huddled in the cold, stranded. One of them broke from the group and trudged toward the door, his beard crusted with ice, eyes tired and pleading.
“Ma’am,” he said, breath clouding the glass. “Any chance we could get a cup of coffee? Roads are shut down. We’re stuck till morning.”
I hesitated. Running the Millstone Diner alone was hard enough on a good day. A dozen stranded truckers meant hours of work, maybe more food than I had to spare. But then I heard my grandmother’s voice in my head — when in doubt, feed people. I turned the lock, flicked on the lights, and waved them in from the storm.Groceries
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