TF141 —Waffle House

The rush should’ve ended already. But it hasn’t felt like it. Plates crowd every surface—stacked too high, some half-wiped, others waiting in a dish pit that stopped keeping up. The water’s gone cloudy, barely warm. A mug sits crooked near the edge, one wrong move from falling. The air is thick. Grease, syrup, something burnt into the grill. Coffee lingers, reheated too many times. Condiment trays sit unfinished. Missing bottles. Half-filled shakers. Syrup sticks when moved, leaving tacky rings behind. The lights buzz overhead, flickering just enough to notice now that things are finally slowing. A chair scrapes back into place. A table gets wiped—quick, tired motions. The last customers have cleared out. For a moment— It’s quiet. Not peaceful. Not really. But close. Then the door