[Spoken Intro — diner ambience, low noir guitar] Tuesday. 7:10. I opened the door to Mabel’s and knew immediately something was wrong. Three stools down… nothing. No cup. No steam. No coffee waiting for a man who wasn’t coming back. Mabel looked at me. “Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You were going to.” Fair. [Verse 1] I took my usual seat Looked down the counter again For weeks that cup had been waiting For a man who came and went But this morning there was no coffee No newspaper folded in two Just an old brass key Three stools down With the number twenty-three. [Chorus] Tuesday, 7:10 Something’s different again No coffee on the counter No stranger walking in Just a key where the cup used to be Like somebody knew I’d come Three stools down Twenty-three And Mabel looking like she wanted to run [Verse 2] I picked up the key “Don’t suppose you know what this opens?” “Nope.” Too quick. “Mabel.” She sighed. “Old bus depot.” “The abandoned one?” “That’s generally what old means.” Cute. “Locker twenty-three?” She turned her back. “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to.” I grabbed my coat. Behind me she said, “If you find something in there… don’t play it.” I stopped. “Play what?” Silence. Well. That narrowed it down. [Verse 3] The depot smelled like dust Rust and rain through broken glass Twenty years of nowhere going Still hanging in the past The lockers lined the back wall Numbers disappearing beneath decay Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-three. The key turned. Inside sat a small cardboard box. And on top— a photograph. Of me. [Music drops] Not yesterday. Not last week. Years ago. A photograph I remembered. Because I’d lost it. [Chorus] Tuesday, 7:10 Now this wasn’t someone else’s game Not Bill Not Jim Not Stan Not another buried name Someone had kept a piece of me Before I ever knew to look Three stools down Locker twenty-three And somebody knew exactly what they took [Verse 4] Underneath the photograph A little silver chain Something else I’d lost so long ago I’d forgotten the day Then at the bottom of the box A cassette tape. One label. Black ink. Four words: TUESDAY — 7:10 PLAY LAST. I laughed. Of course. Because apparently even dead men give instructions. [Bridge — sparse pulse] I carried the tape back across the road Mabel saw it and closed her eyes “You found twenty-three.” “Apparently.” “Did you play it?” “It says play last.” “Good.” “Why?” She looked toward the empty stool. Then at me. “Because you’re not the last one yet.” [Silence] “I’m getting really tired of sentences like that, Mabel.” “I know.” “Who put my things in that locker?” She didn’t answer. “Was it Stan?” Nothing. “The man three stools down?” Still nothing. “Mabel…” She finally looked at me. “You keep asking who he was.” “Yeah.” “Maybe you should start asking how he knew you.” [Final Chorus] Tuesday, 7:10 And the coffee wasn’t there Just an empty place beside me And a question in the air Twenty-three years of secrets But this one had my name I’d walked into their story Now I knew I’d been in it before I came [Outro — spoken] I put the cassette on the counter. Didn’t play it. Not yet. Mabel walked toward the kitchen. “Mabel?” She stopped. “If I’m not the last one… who is?” Before she could answer— CLICK. The coffee machine turned on. By itself. We both watched as it poured one cup. Three stools down. Mabel went pale. I looked at the clock. 7:10. Then the bell above the door rang. [Footsteps] Mabel whispered— “Oh, hell.” [Cut to silence]
