USA. A diner at night.

Red light. Blue light. Steam standing on the counter like a ghost that paid rent.

The waitress’s name tag said DARLENE. A mountain of plates. Rain on the glass. A man asleep in a booth with his hat still on, as if the hat had unfinished business.

I asked Darlene who had carved this.

“Carved what, sugar?”

“This print,” I said. “The night. The steam. The woman who remains when the city has gone home. In my country a craftsman would spend a year on this, and still apologize for the red.”

Darlene looked around her own workplace as if seeing a rumor.

“Honey. This is just the night shift.”

I sat in the booth across from the sleeping man. I did not wake him. In a proper picture, the sleeper must stay.

Coffee arrived without my asking, black, in a thick cup. I held it with both hands and studied the composition.

The neon made a wound in the rain. It was beautiful in a way that did not require anyone to admit it.

I bowed to the window.

So tell me, America.

When you build a room of steam and red light and call it nothing but late — do you know you have made a woodblock that moves?

And Darlene, who refills the cup without looking, is she a waitress, or the seal the artist forgot to sign?

Just the night shift.