Recommendation for Rise

The lunch rush had begun. Plates clinked, orders hollered from behind the kitchen pass, and the sweet smell of frying batter hung in the air. Sarah moved quickly between tables, apron already smudged, pen behind her ear, hair tied tight. Her sneakers squeaked slightly on the tiled floor. The rhythm of the shift had already settled into her bones.

She didn't notice the folded note taped beneath the counter drawer when she clocked in.

But the manager did.

Mia had left it earlier that morning, handwritten on the diner's branded memo pad with a steady hand:

To whom it may concern: Sarah W. has shown extraordinary diligence, grace under pressure, and quiet leadership. I recommend her for shift lead consideration. – MW.

The initials were subtle. The handwriting—curved, sharp, elegant.

The manager read it twice before slipping it into his pocket.

By noon, Sarah had taken three drink orders, bussed two tables, and reset the condiments on booth five—all while balancing a conversation with a regular about the rising price of eggs.

She didn't expect the tap on her shoulder.

"Hey," the manager said, voice low. "Got a second?"

Sarah turned, breath catching. "Of course."

They stepped just behind the counter, near the supply shelf. The wall there was covered in an old bulletin board of rotating shifts and faded flyers for pancake fundraisers.

"I've been thinking," he began, "you've been consistent. Precise. No complaints from anyone who matters."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Anyone who doesn't matter?"

He smiled. "They complain about everything."

She laughed. Just once.

Then he handed her the pad.

She read it slowly. Her eyes traced each loop of the letters. The pressure of the pen showed through the paper like intention embedded in the page.

When she reached the initials, her breath caught.

MW.

She didn't say anything. Just looked up.

"Shift lead, starting next week. If you want it."

Sarah nodded.

"I want it."

He clapped her once on the shoulder and walked off.

She stood there a moment longer.

The fryer hissed, someone dropped silverware, and the receipt printer spat out an order—chicken salad, extra pickles.

But all of it faded.

She folded the note, crisp and careful, and slid it into her back pocket.

Across the street, Mia watched through the diner window.

She couldn't hear the words. But she saw the moment.

Sarah's face didn't break into a grin, but something deeper happened—her stance lengthened, her shoulders dropped. She folded the note once and tucked it into her pocket like it was something alive.

A small nod followed. To no one. Just to herself.

Mia turned to go.

But then, the bell above the door jingled.

She looked back.

Sarah's father entered the diner.

Hair damp from rain, a jacket too thin for the weather. He scanned the booths slowly, eyes calculating.

Mia pressed herself against the side of the building.

She opened her notebook with shaking hands.

Wrote:

Father entry point: noon. Intent unclear. Sarah behind counter. Maintain watch.

Inside, Sarah hadn't seen him yet.

But she would.

He took a seat near the window. Didn't order. Just opened a weathered phone case and began scrolling.

Sarah moved behind the counter, refilling sugar jars. Her back was to him.

Mia tensed.

Then the manager walked past Sarah and paused. Whispered something. Sarah turned, gaze shifting to the window.

She saw him.

She froze.

Mia's grip tightened around her pen.

Sarah didn't move toward the table.

She turned away.

Walked back into the kitchen.

A long breath.

Inside, she leaned against the prep sink.

Another staff member looked at her, then looked away.

No questions.

No comments.

Just space.

She returned to the floor five minutes later. Her expression smooth. Composed.

The man at the window looked up.

Met her eyes.

She didn't flinch.

She didn't approach.

She refilled creamers.

He waited ten minutes.

Then left.

Mia tracked him as he exited.

He walked with no urgency. Turned left at the light.

Gone.

She exhaled slowly. Then turned back toward the window.

Sarah was still moving—table to table. Calm. Measured. Quietly in control.

The note remained in her pocket.

Warm against her side.