Wednesday is for Waffles

Wednesday was waffle day.

No one remembered exactly who started it. Possibly Mira. Possibly the cat. Possibly a lonely asteroid miner who stopped by one afternoon and swore waffles were the only food that kept him sane after ten years in isolation.

Regardless, the tradition stuck.

Every Wednesday, Mira pulled out her solar-powered waffle iron (a sentimental gift from a traveler who claimed to have built it out of a dying sun), and the scent of browning batter filled the café like an old song.

The regulars knew.

Hollis, the retired bounty hunter turned philosopher, always arrived first. She’d take her seat by the counter, order the same “double cinnamon, no syrup, add fresh fig slices if you’ve got ’em” plate, and spend the next hour arguing theoretical ethics with herself in a notebook.

Then came Jukko and Rev, the dimension-lost couple who never figured out how to get home and decided maybe this was home. They shared their waffles. Always. One plate. Two forks. Unspoken agreement.

The cat watched them from the window. Tail twitching. Judging. Occasionally stealing a bite when no one was looking.

Today, a new girl wandered in. Early twenties, earthborn by the look of her shoes—too scuffed to be from any of the polished gravity-free colonies. Her hoodie was embroidered with a faded emblem of a tree on fire. She walked with that careful tension of someone who wasn’t sure if they’d entered a café or an afterlife.

Mira greeted her the same way she greeted everyone: “We’re between the stars and past the point of no return. Can I get you a menu?”

The girl blinked. “Is this a dream?”

“No. Just Wednesday. Waffle?”

She sat. “I guess.”

The plate came hot, golden, with a pat of butter that shimmered faintly blue. She took a bite. Stared down at the plate.

“…This tastes like home.”

Mira nodded. “That’s what we aim for.”

The girl didn’t ask how they got the butter. Or the flour. Or where exactly they were. She just ate. Slowly. Gratefully.

Behind her, Jukko laughed at something Rev said. Hollis muttered a brilliant contradiction in her notebook. The cat, now curled on the girl’s lap, kneaded its paws into her thigh and began to purr.

The girl closed her eyes.

Mira poured another coffee. Switched the jukebox to something with warm chords and no lyrics.

Outside, galaxies died and reformed.

Inside, the waffles were crispy on the edges and soft in the center.

At the end of the universe, Wednesdays still meant something. And that was enough.