Holly Krindle swiped a damp rag across the chipped Formica tabletop, her movements slow and deliberate as she traced circles over the worn surface. She wasn’t really cleaning anymore—she was grounding herself, finding rhythm in the repetition, pretending that the ache beneath her ribs wasn’t still there. Outside the diner’s fogged window, snowflakes twirled lazily down onto the cobblestone streets of Sweetstock, blanketing the quaint little town in a hush of white. The world looked peaceful, untouched, like a postcard sent from a time when life still felt simple. She paused, cloth dangling from her fingers, and pressed her palm against the cold glass. Her breath caught as the sight…