Morning came with the kind of vengeance usually reserved for gods and hangovers.
Archie groaned into his pillow, the muffled sound of his phone alarm somehow louder than church bells. His mouth tasted faintly of regret and off-brand rum, and the room still smelled like the ghosts of last night's party—cheap cologne, spilled juice, and a distant echo of Marco trying to freestyle a drinking chant.
He rolled out of bed and immediately stepped on a lone poker card.
The King of Hearts.
How poetic.
As he pulled on his clothes—black polo, khakis that had definitely belonged to someone's dad before winding up in a thrift store bin—he remembered why he was up this early.
It started with a look.
Not a dramatic, tear-streaked, Oscar-worthy kind of look—just a quiet one. The kind Amber gave Archie when she thought he wasn't paying attention. She'd been balancing bills in the kitchen again, biting the corner of her lip and tapping her pen against her chin in that way she did when numbers refused to be tamed.
He saw it from the hallway, framed between the door and the yellowing fridge. That look. Tired. Focused. Brave.
It was enough.
He didn't tell her he'd applied. Just took the flyer from the campus job board, walked into the restaurant next to the university bookstore, and asked for the manager like he knew what he was doing.
The place was called The Pepperpot, a cozy diner wedged between a pharmacy and a shop that sold nothing but specialty socks. It smelled like frying oil, old vinyl booths, and the kind of comfort food that hugged your arteries and then slowly squeezed.
The manager, Ramon, was a stocky man in his late forties with a mustache that could deflect wind and a voice like gravel in a blender. He took one look at Archie—gangly, polite, still vaguely smelling like college dorms—and said, "You got two hands and no allergies?"
Archie nodded.
"You're hired."
His first shift began two days later.
The uniform was a black apron, a red T-shirt with THE PEPPERPOT printed in faded yellow letters, and a hat that did not believe in flattering anyone.
He met his coworkers in a blur of introductions, clattering dishes, and shouted orders.
There was Mina, the head waitress, who moved like she was permanently late to something and called everyone "darling" even when she was furious.
Terry, the dishwasher, wore earbuds and didn't speak unless it was to quote a movie line no one recognized.
And Nico, the line cook, had tattoos of knives and an existential crisis simmering just beneath his apron.
Archie's job was a little of everything. Bussing tables. Pouring water. Taking orders when Mina got swamped. Rolling silverware with napkins so tight they could be used as weapons.
The first few days were chaos.
He dropped a tray of fries on a toddler (who, miraculously, laughed).
He forgot to ring in a BLT and got scolded by Nico, who passive-aggressively placed an entire head of lettuce on his workstation.
He mixed up two milkshake orders, resulting in a lactose-intolerant poetry major reciting a dramatic haiku about digestive betrayal.
And yet... he kept showing up.
There was something oddly grounding about the work—the clatter of plates, the hiss of the fryer, the low hum of the soda fountain. It gave his mind something to do other than chase memories that refused to come. The rhythm was rough, but it was steady.
After his third shift, Ramon clapped him on the back.
"You don't complain. You don't cry. You'll do fine."
High praise, in Pepperpot terms.
One quiet evening after work, Archie decided to visit his sister. Amber curled on the couch, half-asleep with a book open on her chest. He stood in the doorway for a moment, the smell of burgers and grease still clinging to him.
He cleared his throat softly.
She looked up. "You're home."
"I got a job," he said, awkwardly. "Part-time. At that diner across from the bookstore."
Amber blinked. "What?"
"I've been working there for a week."
"You—what? Archie, why didn't you—?"
"I just wanted to help," he said quickly, before nerves could convince him otherwise. "You've done everything for me. I know it's not much, but... it's something."
Amber stared at him. For a second, he thought she might cry. Instead, she got up, walked over, and hugged him. Tight.
"You didn't have to," she whispered.
"I know," he replied. "But I wanted to."
They stood there for a moment, brother and sister, both a little worn out, both a little stronger than they gave themselves credit for.
Later that night, Archie lay in bed with sore feet and a full heart. He smelled like onions and sanitizer, and his fingertips were wrinkled from too much dishwater.
Still, he smiled.
College was weird. Life was weirder. But he was making something—maybe not sense, not yet—but a shape. A path. A way forward.
Outside, the city hummed. Inside, Archie dreamed of plates that didn't need scrubbing, memories that might one day return, and maybe—just maybe—a shift where he wouldn't spill anything at all.