The rain had been falling since before sunrise, turning the streets of Brookdale into long ribbons of silver beneath the gray November sky. By noon, most people had hurried indoors, seeking warmth wherever they could find it.

Harris Whitmore did not seem to be in much of a hurry.

He walked slowly along Main Street, his old brown coat buttoned to the collar and his worn leather shoes splashing softly through shallow puddles. A wool cap sat crookedly on his thinning gray hair. In one hand, he carried a small canvas bag. In the other, he held a folded newspaper that had already become damp around the edges.

To anyone passing by, Harris looked like just another elderly man struggling through a rainy afternoon.

No one knew that he had once owned a successful construction company.

No one knew that his hands, now marked by age and trembling slightly in the cold, had once helped build half the businesses along Main Street.

And certainly no one inside the Brookdale House Restaurant knew who he was when he pushed open its heavy glass door.

A small bell chimed.

Warm air rushed toward him, carrying the smell of roasted chicken, coffee, butter, and freshly baked bread. Harris paused for a moment just inside the entrance, closing his eyes.

The restaurant looked almost exactly as he remembered.