The rain on Highway 66 wasn't a pour; it was a tireless, horizontal drumming. Katherine drove less to get somewhere and more to exhaust the residual ache of her recent breakup. Every mile was an intentional, physical distancing from the life she'd just cleaved in half. She was hungry, but mostly, she was lonely, and the idea of a brightly lit chain restaurant was unbearable.
Then she saw it: Eddie's Eats.
It sat fifty feet off the road, a silver Airstream-style diner that looked less restored and more stubbornly preserved by neglect. The neon sign, advertising "EATS" and "PIES," flickered in a pattern that suggested imminent failure. The parking lot was gravel, pocked with puddles, and aside from her tired sedan, it was empty.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old fryer oil, dust, and something sweet, like long-forgotten vanilla. The walls were lined with cracked burgundy vinyl booths and pale turquoise Formica tables. The only soul she could see behind the counter was a woman with a beehive haircut who looked exactly like the kind of person who had worked at this specific counter for thirty years.
Katherine slid into a booth near the back, hoping for anonymity. As she waited for her coffee, she noticed the jukebox. It was a massive, chrome-and-red cathedral of music, silent and slightly dusty. It looked like it hadn't played a song since Reagan was in office.
She walked over, drawn by the silence. As she ran her fingers over the song selection cards. The Platters, Elvis, Patsy Cline, a sudden, sharp draft of cold air ghosted past her, smelling faintly of cologne and tobacco smoke. A prickle ran down her spine, but when she turned, the diner was as still as a tomb.
Returning her attention to the machine, she noticed that the title card for "Unchained Melody" was loose. She pressed it back into place, and the entire front panel of the jukebox shifted with a heavy clunk. The selection grid swung inward, revealing a cramped, secret cavity.
Inside were three items, bundled together: a thick, leather-bound diary; a sheaf of yellowed newspaper clippings tied with twine; and a small, faded photograph of a handsome young man with an impossibly bright, reckless smile, embracing a woman with soft, blonde hair. The man in the picture wore the same kind of suit as the phantom she had seen near the window.
Katherine retrieved the diary first. The pages smelled of aged paper and regret. She opened it to the last, dated entry, which had been written in heavy, desperate ink thirty years ago.
She read the final line, and the diner's old secrets suddenly felt urgent and alive:
"Sarah promised to meet me here tonight... my heart will wait forever."
Kent was still waiting.