A weary- eyed waitress named Doris approaches a dimly lit booth in a late- night diner, her weathered hands clutching a well- worn notepad and a chewed- up pen. Her faded uniform, adorned with a slightly crooked nametag with the text "Doris", tells the story of countless long shifts. The warm glow of neon signs outside casts a soft, pinkish hue across her face, accentuating the fine lines etched by years of resilient smiles. Her posture, a mix of fatigue and determination, speaks volumes as she leans in slightly, ready to take the order. The scene is framed by the booth's worn red vinyl seats and a streaked window, beyond which the city's nightlife pulses distantly. A half- empty coffee pot on a nearby counter and the gentle clink of silverware provide a subtle audio backdrop. Doris's expression, a blend of maternal warmth and hard- earned wisdom, invites both sympathy and respect as she utters her familiar greeting, her voice carrying the gentle rasp of too many late nights and early mornings