Everyone at the Diner Started Losing Pieces of Their Past Until Pete Disappeared Too

Everyone at the Diner Started Losing Pieces of Their Past Until Pete Disappeared Too

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Darkest Mysteries Online

Speaker 1: Fog pressed that as paste over the cracked church lot

across the road, so white and heavy it made the

flickering neon of Sunnyside sign float on air and mowed

from its little brick box. I pulled my collar high,

the taste of frain and old cigarette wrappers on my tongue,

keys in my fist thumb, running over the faded I

hot and hy keychain. Peete gave me not that I

ever made it to New York my whole life. The

farthest I got was the cemetery upon footbridge from my

uncle Dave's send off. But Petes wore everyone should have

a little bit of hope in their pocket, even if

it's only plastic inside. I went straight to the break

of closet before turning anything on habit. Sometimes the pipes quamed.

If he hit the main lights before the hot water cycles.

I could smell the carpet clean up Peat used, or

said he did after every closing, the sharp width of

lemon chemical and faintly of mildew, but no vomitable last

coal sweat. Yet not tonight, just the echo of all ghosts.

As my Nanna would have said. When the lights junked on.

The police swam up around meng gleaming behind the counter.

Red vinyl steels were ready to spin the warm from

my tables with their constellation of cigarette burns salt shakers.

We only half full, because Lucy said full ones invited

bad luck to most people, sunsided that liminal noha feel

a dinah for half slept truckers and locals whose secrets

were too heavy to whisper at home. But I'd been

behind this line for twelve years now, read a cook,

always on time, spatchel in hand, grease on my forearms

before the sun even shrugged up over the hills. This

was my place, not home, not quite, but damn clothes routine.

First white down, checked the pancake batter, count the eggs,

or fill the napkins. I ducked into the narrow hallway

to the stock closet, shoes squeaking on lino stole tacky

from last night's mop. It's always dim in here, but

the air was colder than right. I reached for the shelf,

then stopped, hand in air. There were empty rectangles all

along the wall, every further so, each with their own

dustile lines. The family photos, the wan's peet made us

high out of pride, he said, or gilts were gone,

all of them, the old black and white of his parents,

by the chevy, his brother's army snapshot peat holding a

six pound carp even the faded polaroid of the crew.

At last winter's Christmas party, with my own munk, sheepish

and shaven, among the ugly sweaters, all missing the hook

stuck out naked. My heart pang, then stumbled. For a

long second. I didn't move, only the hum of the

ice machine. I doubled back, fast, scanning the empty walls.

If the photos would flicker into being, if I stared

long enough. My breath sawed in my throat. Not a

single frame, only some bent pushpins and one half shredded

bit of paper caught in a molding, fluttering like a

moths wing. When I passed the bell over the front

door jangled, slicing the stillness into bits and chasing the

last child the shope away that I had hallucinated it.

I wiped my hands on my apron and forced my

face into the gruff, half grin the regulars expected. Morlene

came in first, her dyed hair cul tight and blue

windbreakers up to her chein and took bag, bumping her hip. Lord,

have mercy, she muttered, glancing at the blank wall. Red,

what happened here, she asked, voice too high. Don't know yet,

I said, though it tasted like a light even before

it left my mouth. She pressed close, peering, thin lips twisted.

Those were all peats, weren't they. Her gaze flicked up,

her gray eyes shiny shopped, then back to the wall,

as if she might spot a stray smile or wink

caught between the smudges. Last night they were there, I said, shrugging,

wishing it didn't feel so thin. I offered her coffee,

desperate for anything that would burn away the silence. Another

voice from the doorway. There gone Curtis leather jacket. It

smelled like gasoline and spoiled milk. He thumbed his phone.

Didn't look up. It don't mess with me. Red saw

those mugs here yesterday morning, Pete's old man with a

score gun. I didn't argue. The photos were gone, and

the wall looked strange without them, exposed in a way

you feel just before fever hits. Behind me, came another jingle,

Lucy's pink sneakers squeaked one too, a cross the entry

towels as she made her way to the counter, hair

in a crooked barn. I was already raw edged. Hey, red,

you see my lucky dollar. She ducked behind the register

to peek under the money tray. Sunding distracted, but just

as quickly straightened and fur a staring at the wall.

Bah no, she breathed, What the hell I said nothing.

It was almost a relief when the old walk above

the cooler buzz ten five, signaling the night officially on.

By then he could feel the unees vibrating under our skin.

The diner was tommy, more like an engine choking on

old gas. White lumbered and next Jean soaked to the knees,

bull catched by trucker's ires and bad sleep paper, cup

of gas station coffee steaming in one paw. He clocked

the wall, then me no hello, just a grunt. Sat

far and booth unfolded a rumpled crosswood and glared out

the window like the fog itself might have his answers.

Baronesto last In tossed his bike against the side door

with a rattle block Bundanna tied at his throat you

redecorate boss. He flashed a crooked grain, but nobody responded.

Lucy started to say something, but her voice snagged and died.

Five of us, now, every one but Pete. We made

our own little orbit. Marlene's superstition, Curtis's temper, white steady silence,

Lucy's endless doubts, Ernesta's sullen jukes. And Pete the glue,

the one who heard the confessions, kept the books balanced,

lessened way past closing to store, as no one else would.

I always said Pete was the only one at Sunnyside

he could talk an angry man down or make a

scared woman laugh again. Lucy patted over, pulling a batter

dollar bill from her apron before luck, she said, as

if reminding herself, though she looked straight at me. I

nodded and cracked my knuckles, hat stating, then moved past

her to the service window, my back to everyone so

they couldn't see my hand. Shake eggs, bacon, hash, and

don't Burnett. Curtis cold sliding onto his stool. You all

hear from Pete to night. He'll leave you any new

post it's read. I shook my head again grabbing a

handful of cracked plates. I'd gotten so used to Pete's

little notes after closing, don't overstalk or remember three taps

of me and the smiley face and faded feltip. Sometimes

on bad days, a pack of mentals left on my station,

always with a quick pat on my shoulder, silent, steady.

His photo sat on the counter, still, the one with

the gold flake frame. Pete mid laugh, his palm up

as if waving. I ran the rag across a glass,

touching Pete's frame once, then twice. Bring us lock, old man,

I mutter behind me. Marlene started up about ghosts again.

Ye know, all this vanishing reminds me of that story

from decades back, mill Fire, Midnight and night I ever

found the boss, just his boots upstairs in the muck.

She rattled her rings in the tabletop. Curse rolled his eyes.

It's bad luck, is what it is. First the photos,

Maybe next to be the register walking out on my

damn coffee, creditor raised. Lucy snorted, but her voice sounded strained.

Town's going out bit by bit anyway, Last week two

more stores boarded up. Feels like everything's just fading. She

glanced at the blank wallt then at me. I nest

a clatter of pans, whistling tunelessly as if to drown

them all out. Ain't nothing here worth stealing, not unless

you got a special taste for burnt gravy, an ancient debt,

he joked. Nobody laughed. I busied myself with eggs. Let

the routine take over, count, crack spin, heete would check

my heat, pretend sniffer burnt oil. Them were of the

edge of the countertop for luck. Without him, even the

clatter felt warped offbeat. I started flipping flapjacks with a

mechanical rhythm. Everything was just routine, weird until Lucy piped

up with a strangled yelp, where the hell is my dollar?

The look on her face, panic and something else Jane

maybe stopped the whole room. He scrambled along the last booth,

fingers grabbling in a rubber strip under the table, poking

through crusted gum and straw wrappers, loose something sugar Marline

called half consoling lucky dollar. Lissey croaked, as if it

were obvious the one my grandma gave me, kept it

taped under here for two years. Ain't been moved. Once

she emerged, Bruce blooming on her arm, hands empty gone.

Curtis stood looming over the chalkboard where someone Pete always

Peete logged the regular's tabs. Where's my name? He growled,

where's my whole? Dan? Lying it was here last night,

he wiped the board, chalked us blooming. I was seven

fifty and I don't see it up here. He trying

to cheat me. Relax, I said, voice a little shaker

than intended. I glanced behind the counter, running down the

registered drawer. My own old lighter, the silver one with

Pete's initials, had kept as a joke, no longer nestled

in its usual nook. White picked up his coffee rumple brows, said,

in a frown, any one else missing stuff? His eyes

flickered to the window, to the empty lot ware. His

truck waited. A scrape noise caught my attention east to

tiles freshly scored. A pale line gouged deep into the gray.

I crouched by it, running my finger along the groove,

maybe two feet long, curved, as if something heavy, something

dragged amid its path, from the edge of the office

door towards the back eggs. The linoleum curled at the edges,

flecks of white stock in the seam. A faint fliery

just pressed into the gouge. Lucy shivered. You think it

was kid's some nut job she asked for was cracking.

I Nesso just shook his head. Beattett's ghosts. Lot of old,

ugly rumors in a place. This soul might be paid

by time. You know. He didn't sound like he believed it.

White snorted. Ain't nothing but tired people making mistakes. But

his gaze was fixed, wary. A sudden hush. Pete's seat

sent her booth facing the kitchen was empty. I checked

my watch, ten twenty eight. Pete was never late, never

in the all the years I'd known him. Curtis banged

the count top. Someone somewhere knows what's going on, He

pointed at Lucy. He was always closing up near midnight.

Maybe you saw something Lucy's hands unto her breed ay.

I left just after midnight. Pete told me to drop

cash in a safe and pull the blinds. Tea was

still here, least I think he was. She wins, blinking hard.

Arnesta busied himself with the tray stacking chipped cups. Last

night was fine, he said, nothing but smoke, same as

any Wednesday. It felt like time slowed inside Sunnyside, the

air getting denser by the second. Everyone slightly out of step.

I made the call, as always, waving Curtis and White

toward the foyer. We split up, check everywhere Pete could be.

Round back, Lucy with me. Let's check the walk in.

Maybe Pete's hiding in the cooler with those damn moon pies. Again, Curtis,

see if he's in the stock room or whatever. Lucy followed,

rubbing her arms. We passed the office, locked tight, no

light behind a frosted glass. He's never late. You ever

see Pete sick? She asked, desperate for reassurance. Nope, I said,

though my voice sounded hollow inside the walk and was

just chill in boxes of expired pudding cups. Lucy banged

the freezer door, checking the top crates. But Pete wasn't there.

Only a faint, sticky note. Pete's handwriting half dissolved. Keep cold,

keep calm. I stuffed it in my apron without thinking.

Curtis's voice down the hall. Ain't nothing here except the scrape.

You all sure you didn't see some wine? No slipin'.

I went out through the fire door. The spring creaking

fog made Ali feel infinite. White was circling the lot

flasklight's way. His truck ain't here. Red should be right,

and slot three but it's gone and no tracks. Nothing

back Inside. Marlene hunched over her purse, flipping through old receipts.

What if someone set this up, she asked, What if

it's a warning? Lucy re emerged, face pale, from the

space between the salt canisters. She pulled a torn piece

of newsprint, folded twice. It's Key's notebook, she whispered, to

fingers trembling. His handwriting. Wasn't here last night, I swear.

White Stump met out of his boots and peered over

Lizzie's shoulder. Let's see squinting, I read aloud. Odettes oldered

in this town. Second chances never come free. If you

find this. Remembered the price we paid, the deals we took.

Don't trust anyone who says they're harmless. What price we're in?

A muttered This sounds like Pete had a nervous breakdown,

or he knew somebody was coming for him, Marllyn said,

her voice grown thin. I fumbled under the register drawer,

more from habit than hope, and felt my finger brush something.

I fisted out a photograph, face down, slick with firsh dust.

I flipped it. There was Pete as a little boy,

clutching a dog. I didn't recognize street behind him, diret

blown and empty, nothing but the glint of his eyes,

familiar from across so many friars and late night holes

and some old address numbers half rubbed off. I showed Lucy,

but she only blinked, lips quivering. Where is this that's

not here? Nobody answered? Attention ratcheted up after that and

said but heavy. Every gesture felt like accusation, every silence

like the winding down of a clock. Marllyan stared across

the table at me, face pinched. I saw you near

that wall, read yesterday morning. What were you doing exactly?

My cheeks burned. I was straightening the frames. Pete likes

things tidy. You know that, Curtis scoffed. Wasn't Lucy back

here last Schieff stashing her lucky money under the tables.

Anyone could have slip up something out. Hell, Lucy, you're

the last to leave every time. Lucy bristle's eyes glistening

to its start. I went home straight after my shift.

Ask Conesto, he's always late. Maybe he wanted to score.

Ronesto stepped back, shaking his head. Don't bring me into this.

Never even touched that wall. Whit's fist clenched, jaw popping.

Maybe you all like to play little games, but I'm

not messing with this any more. Curtis, you got something

to say about your own debts to the one who

scrubbed the board. Curtis lutched off his still face, modeled you,

saying I'd wipe my own tab get bent. The accusations

bounced around like a chemical fire growing, not burning out.

Marlene's scream shattered a plate. Stop blaming me, for it's

the only one who ever gets here first. Maybe he

wanted peace job. I shouted for quiet, but my voice

finished into the grease laden air. Lucy dissolved to terrors.

Curtis wore knuckles wide around his keys, threatening to walk.

White kicked open the front door for a signal, Stepping

out into the fog. Through the window, I saw his

silhouette phone held high, mouth moving in angry puzzle, bubbles

at the grill. My hand shook so bad. A splashed

hallve oil, hissing, the sting almost comforting. For a split second.

I hated everyone in that room, then hated myself for it.

Whiteboged back, clutching a crumpled brown bag, dusted thick with flier.

Found this behind the dumpster, he said, voice booming. Somebody

dumped it there not long ago. He poured the contents out,

a blackened slip of notebook paper, staining greasy. I picked

it up, squinting through the flyer dusted lines. This one

was almost so legible, scratched in raw, looping handwriting, he's

Shrewer's day. I can't let them tear me upot, I

won't be here when the morning comes. They'll make it

look like it was my idea, but it never was.

Lucy gasped, Curtis batter curse. Marlin crossed herself, whispering, white

slip gould. You think Pete was running some kind of scam.

Maybe the owner told him to clear house. I shook

my head. If he ran, why'd he leave this mess?

Maybe he wanted us to find it, Ernesto said, voice

suddenly small. Maybe he's watching, waiting. The tension thickened. Marlene

kept looking at the office door, biting her nails down

to ragg of red. Curtis prowled behind the counter, eyes

flicking to the tilt, chest heaving. Lucy sunk conto her jewel,

hands cupped over her face, mumbling numbers. White paced checking

his phone for bars, and then a soft metallic clac

a hinge releasing the office door. Loft just minutes before

was now hanging open, night block within. Nobody moved right away.

Finally I stepped forward, hot, trip hammering, the others stacking

up behind me. The office was in chaos, paper scattered,

chair overturned, the wall of keys, missing more than half

his hoox. On the desk a photograph, but not pe

not anybody I had seen before. Broad shouldered man, features

half lost to shadow, as looking past the lens, as

if he was seeing something none of us ever would.

Curtis muttered a curse. Marlene said, who is that? I

slid the photo into my pocket, sweatslick on my palms

outside a car, passed, headlight smeared through fog gone before

I could even register it. The lights in the office

flickered once, twice, then stead The others croudjed my back, stirring,

not at the desk, but at me, each with a

different question, a different accusation. You hiding something, red, Curtis asked,

voice much too loud. I didn't answer, not right away.

I just kept my hand over that photograph, thumbing the

bent edge. As the others argued, blamed, turned on each other,

and Marlene pressed the phone against her ear, listening to

the hull or nothing what Pete used to be. The

night felt like it was pressing in because the fog

we roiling outside. Someone switched the lights off and on.

I couldn't tell whose hand did it? On my lips,

Pete's name, but no voice coming out on my lips,

Pete's name, but no voice coming out. I can't say

how long I stood there, pressed half in and half

out of the threshold. The rest of the staff in

a loose horse, she behind mad, everybody steering clear of

the shadows. Marlene was whispering prayers or ghurses, I couldn't tell.

And Lucy hid her hands, jumped up into her sleeves,

working a ragged thumbnail like worry beads. Heaphen Curtis, too

proud for superstition, kept the counter between him and the

office door, like a man keeping a mote between himself

and whatever waits inside. Castles inside the office reached a

wire's sharp and flickery, like how the back lot used

to smell after Pete replaced a fixture himself and forgot

to tape the ends. There was something else underneath, sweat

and musk and a faint tinn, a foe cleaner but

sire like no one dayared it out. In weeks the

Homi clutter had been bond pipe drawers pulled like broken

jaws that had dres skinned white to half blank pages.

There was pete ashtray full but need he never flicked,

but just anywhere, always lined them up with the folds

facing the window. Behind it a match brook, just the

look of V F W dress and a faded flag,

and touched the others wouldn't step inside, not yet. I

made myself move, notut to flick a pencil across the

carpet and bright a chair which whealed on its one

sticky we'll like a small trapped animal. I kept scanning

for another note, a clue, a joke, anything in peat,

crab sarcastic hand red, Lucy's head, voice high and ragged.

What do we do? I strayed into quick My knees popping.

The sight of the missing key scattered me. Five gone

from their hooks, not random, but picked out of the line,

like teeth from a comb. His master key, the safe

one labeled back lot another I didn't know Anne counter

that last one all stuck out because Pete wrote in

green mock air, not blue like the others. I peered

into the waste basket, napkins, the end of apparel slip,

then something shiny. One of the hooks spent. A shit

snapped off, with tiny flecks of red on the edge.

I didn't like thinking about what it meant. Hans working

so hard and so scared, you broke? What should pop need?

Under a toist Curtis's shadow blocked the doorway you find

the cash drop? His tongue was half joking, half hopeful.

The question hung a second. Nobody answered. I rolled the

chairside saw under the desk, another little pile receipts. Pete's

desk calendar opened to last week Thursday, square carved through pages,

torn down past the cardboard back. The luncham scrolled over

yesterday's day at a phone number, but the bottom half

was ripped away the rest blank checked the drawers for

another note. A. D. White said he was half way

in the door now, hands in his jacket, pockets, jaw set.

People leave notes, right, So where's the one that says why?

I opened the drawers? Slow echoing paper clips, an old

bottle of Vasprian coated and desk fuzz, A single tightly

rolled pack of mint, gun stale and dust kicked. Third

drawer was locked. Nothing to do about it. The keys

were gone anyway. The photo on the desk still there,

still wrong. I turned it over. Written on the back,

just one word row, no name, no date, no context,

just a heavyerlive block shop I line though, nearly closing

a loop and on itself. Lucy stepped in after me,

hugging herself. Pete didn't know this guy. He never let

any one's picture up but family and crew. Maybe it's

the owner, Curtis Scoff. The owner has been gone in

the books for years. Love's three count is over some

cousin never seen him in my life. White, though peered

over my shoulder, lowering his head like he might recognize

the man through sheer effort. Looks like somebody who could

make a man run, he muttered. And I couldn't tell

if he meant it to bite her, just plain truth.

Behind us, Morlene was pacing now, running her nails along

the chalk seems in the counter, stirring out the window

like she expected Pete to stride up out of the

fog in that battered windbreaker and save us from our

own claws. I nest to hovered in the kitchen's mouth,

clutching a dish towel, eyes wide as lids of paint.

The bill over front snapped us soul straight for a blip.

We looked at each other, some half shamed, some relieved

at the distraction, until it became clear the door hadn't moved,

no footsteps, only the bells swinging on its spring. Lucy

darted out, glancing this way and that nobody's here, she said,

voised thinto breaking you sure you didn't see somebody pass

by at the window. Curtis pressed, almost frantic. Lucy shook

her head fast, one slipping nobody white light out a

low and happy sound, and strode to the front, standing

like a failed sentry UN's cross, peering past the glass

trucks still out there, fogs not letting up. Back in

the office, I slid the mystery photo back into my

pocket and drew the drawer shut. The scraping sound seemed

to pull at the whole threadbare dignity of the place,

yanking years off the edges back once on is side,

her giiny tables, a jukebox, clean uniforms, and hoping the menu.

Lucy hovered behind. We should call someone, she whispered, police

or repeat's sister, Maybe just someone who isn't here. Her

voice had picked up a tremor, or maybe that was

just me feeling at vibry through the metal racks. Curtis overheard,

embarked and say what exactly? How boss up and quit?

And the photos are gone and everyone's off their stand

sounds like heads will roll for nothing. But Nurse Lucy bristols,

he's missing. She stared at Curtis. Hard to find it

beneath that trembling you hated, Pete said he was always

short in your overtime. Curtis drew up his hands. We

had words. Everybody hears head words, But you're not accusing

me of what scaring him off. Morlene finally found her voice,

low but punchy from the end of the counter. He

got what was coming after letting the place slip. You

all know it. That set the others off. Accusations width

through the greasy Airwold's lights, missing pay dis run up

and left. Cold White bellowed, you all think Pete was

some kind of saint guy, had secrets. Anesta muttered about

we had business after doc late night meetings. Maybe he

was running something on the side. I tuned them all out,

palm sweating over the photo in my pocket. For a second,

A strange memory drifted up. Pete sitting out on the

side steps behind the kitchen, counting bills and flipping through

a small, battered notebook like it held not numbers but spells.

He glanced up as hard but muths soft. Once he

told me voices can wear on face if you let them.

I'd laughed, pass him a lighter now the lines stuck

cold bright Ironesto called his voice had a tremor two

you all right. I dropped the photo in my apron

and set about the room wordless. Outside the fog slammed

itself against the windows cars, his pass unseen. No one

else would work in this late, not with the mood

hanging thick as bacon grease. I went poor fresh coffee

a stall mostly Wi Marline silchirped. The jangle was shrill,

breaking the tangle of argument, she fished in her bag,

thundered a live her muff turned down. No service, she rasped,

it says not in service. All the lion's dead. Lisie's

phone failt too. She showed me the crack's green bars

grate out. Mine's the same, She whispered, it was working earlier.

I swear an unspoken currant kicked beneath the counter. Everybody

glancing up a way nowhere, in particular, calculating if it

was a storm of something done to us, Why dug

out as back I had Nokia press buttons, his jaw

grinding side to side. There in a dine in Elbow's shop,

A lower his layer over the fridge's usual hum like static.

Feeling about to arc anybody else's phone working, Morlene asked,

No one volunteered. Curtisdapped a long rhythm on the countertop,

nervous tick or coat. I'm not staying here, of peace,

not coming back. If someone wants this job, good look

to him. He brandished his keys, then paused, staring at

the hallway. Did did you all hear that? Nothing at first?

Then a dragging sound, just faint from somewhere in the back,

like a sax, slid across tiles, slow and determined, the

scrape joined by a faint thumping knock her rhythm, almost

but not quite a pattern. I could pin down where

Inesto's face went, slack lips barely moving. Could be a raccoon,

he offered, But it was nothing like an animal, Not really.

We all knew it by unspoken agreement. We heard it together.

The goosebumpt and on edges, I led the way toward

the back, each step sticking to the floor where mob

streaks caught the shine. The scrape solved itself as we

neared the end of the hole, just outside walk in freezer,

addusting a fly of tract in a broad arc. The

fire door swung minutely on its frame, opening to the

Allly's night breath. Some part of me, a stubborn twust,

made me straighten up. Curtis dhite back me up. Lusy

checked the side law for Peat's truck again, stain in

the lights, whisp to white out of my elbow, fists

like mallets. Curtis slunk behind, quiet for once. Lissy trembling,

hustled off, dodging broken chair legs left stranded in the passage.

Out in the alley, the fog had curdled Torchen, snuffing

street lights and painting everything a blank wie the dumpster's yawn, dark,

lid's cap with dew. The flyer trail led to the closestpin,

its lid half a jar. White's flasklights stuttered as he

stepped ahead, boots socking on the clutch of mud. I

lifted the lid with the winds, expecting what and not sure.

Inside several trash bags, torn and leaking coffee grounds, and

a brown paper sack crusted in white. I nudged it,

then reached with a spoon, fishing out of folded slip ages,

damp and printed without looping scrawl. Pets led ahead from

the low no oak, mutelt two towns over. I read

it by White's light outluad so the others could hear.

I can't let them tear me apart. I won't be

here when the morning comes. They'll make it look like

it was my idea, but it never was. White frown lit,

pressed tight, then said, who's them? You know? I wanted

to say no, but something in my brain prickshaw a

memory of pee hogging in low, urgent tones in the

office the week before. Names never clear, but the fear mistakable.

Curtis hovered over my shoulder, every muscle cled like a

live wire. You figure, he wrote that tonight papers ry inside,

edges curled could be days ago. A grunted, hating the

uncertainty you hear from him, Curtis pressed hard, his voice gunjadded,

he ever talk about skipping leaving us? Maybe you wanted

his shift? You got debts red? Hell we all do?

I met his eye. I don't go there, not now.

White gazed down the alley, the light from his phone

dancing across Puddle's slickest murder Owe, no tracks and no

sign piece. Truck left the lot except wait. He vanished

through the side gate, Lucy trailing after leaving me and

Curtis by the open dumps, Sir. In the silence that

rolled out, I caught the echo of the bell far away,

like someone was letting themselves in nut staff, not a

regular behind us. Deep in the diner's guts, I caught

the low rumble of voices gathering sharp again. When I

came back inside, Everyone clustered in the front. Marlene perched

on the stool, Lucy by the register. Curtis rubbing the

bridge of his nose. White was out of breath, the

first bead of sweat cutting a line down his cheek.

He shoved a battered folder across the counter. Pete kept

this in his glove box. Don't know how I miss

it before Inside more sounds, clover seats, a faded picture

of Pete and his mom, and a topped under the

sticky notepad, a half sheet of ro old notebook, heavy

with a list of names and numbers, most scratched out

at the bottom. Second chances, price of forgetting. Don't let

it be me next time. Nobody talked. For a moment,

Lucy searched the faces of the little group. Let's press

a bloodless way. What did we forget? What did Pete do?

Her eyes were pinning each of us, one at a time.

Majory of ghosts, White Hunch said, I think we all

did something. Just don't remember it clear. Kurtis barked a sharp,

bitter laugh. You hiding something, right, You seem to know

a lot about missing things. He gestured at my apron,

where the outline of the photograph press faint. What is that?

I didn't want to answer, but Lucy's gaze was too hopeful,

too desperate. I fished out the photopete as a kid

holding the dog on in a mock street, and slid

it to her. She turned it over, saw the address

turned white as flyer. I grew up near there. She whispered,

that street was torn out before I was born. Why

would Pete have this? May be it about what's gone?

Marleyn offered, half hiding behind her coffee, This place, the people,

everything just wiped. Makes you wonder if anyone remembers as

besides the photos. Nobody moved to disagree. The dinner pressed

down on us, wolls crowding closer, tangles of wires and

air vents vibrating with our fear. The beallop of the

door kept shuddering, though nobody entered, feeding the sense that

someone something stood just out a frame, watching and waiting.

I busied myself at the coffee acre. The glass caught

me betray my own face. A shade older rough a

blurred in the shimmered steel. I blink once, then again,

expecting my mind to play tricks from exhaustion. In the

far booth, the flat box where Pete's dashed menus had

been left, opened, its contents scattered in the floor. A

thick envelope poked out Greene's old money. Curtis had moved

in that direction, pacing furious. Then still, you are just

going to stand around or do something, Curtis demanded, heling

the envelope onto the counter, a split spilling, A torn poroid,

faded Marco label's names, dates scattered, as if someone was

trying to erase them by hand. White asked, Lo, what's that?

Bol crew fourtoes, I answered, softly, from year's back peak

kept us stash. These are ruined faces scuffed off, not water,

not heat, scraped off on purpose. Lucy gasped, turning over

the fragments. Her hand shook. Why would anyone do that,

she asked, voice wabbling. What's the point People who don't

want to be remembered, Marlene whispered, or people someone else

wants forgotten? Curtis glared out the window. If Pete did

a runner, he covered his tracks real well. A silence

hard as concrete slid over us only the ticking of

the clock. Each moment stretched, each accusation heavier than closing time.

Then the phone under the counter buzz laud out of nowhere,

the land line be barely used except for the repair

guy or the truck deep O three miles out, A

lunch yanking up the receiver, static for slither, then a

whisper so thin, I almost missed it. You did what

you had to collect and close. The line went dead.

No number on the display. Lucy's mouth fell up, and

she'd been close enough to catch a hint of the voice.

Familiar or not? Was that? I don't know, Abriete, but

the truth had sharp teeth. White just rode to the window,

hand pressed white against the glass. I'm done, I'm done.

Let them take what's left, he muttered. Bread you lock

up at dawn. Nobody's coming back. Not after this, the

group led apart, each person settling far enough from the

next to see the air pulse between us. Marline gathered

her tote, clutching fragments of photo, muttering about how the

pass can kill you. If you let it. Lucy stood

in the spill of fluorescence, picking at the tape on

the counter, as if wishing her lucky dollar would appear.

Out of pity or nesto, still silent stack cups, Refusing

to look anyone in the eye, he kept glancing at

the back as if expected Pete any second or last

order or reprieve. Curtis thought, the locker cub is tearing

his name tag off the ship plastic. If Pete ever

turns up, he girl, he'd better have answers about this.

Nobody said good bye, Nobody said much at all. I

poured myself a cup with hand sunum from coal, for

was a fear that I sloshed half of it on

to the crack for myca I didn't mop it, didn't

even really see it. Instead, I stared out over the

scattered tables as the bouse empter, each surface barer than

seemed possible, stripped of photo's history, anything but stains and

finger prints, only the hum of the fridge, the buzz

of the power lines, and the far off jingle of

the door bell. Over it all, the sense of waiting,

like the air held a breath, not daring to exhale

in case that someone whatever we've lost or what had

been hunting us all along, there would be no breakfast

rush to night yerrt. Some one was shouting my name,

a voice Lucy or maybe Marlene. The words were a

sticky web clinging to the ceiling tiles, and I had

to claw at them before this stuck the office behind

me yond opa of papers in kaos, a wall of

keys looking like broken teeth. Some yanked, others rattling in

their slots. The photo of the man I'd never seen,

the one label dough burn, the thumbnail right through my apron.

My fingers curled around it, the old air thick with

the burnt wire stink pressed against my lungs. The others

hadn't left the threshold. Molline peered by the door, gum

half crossed into shadows, biting down so hard on how

lip she'd have drawn blood if she hadn't already. Curtis

was pacing, hands, flexing, half stepping into the room and

back out again, never letting his feet linger too long.

In the same square, white broad and tied beneath the

still lip pendant, watched the diner's front with the cornered

wolf look I'd only ever seen on hard knights are closing.

Lucy's eyes burned red, looking at me, then pass me,

then at the empty slots in the wall. Light flickered

clicking overhead, until the shadows jetted side was making all

of us look swept forward. I stepped over the threshold,

let the door close behind me, and the room shrunk

a degree tight around us. When I turned, the familiar

thing about Sunnyside was gone. In its place sharp angles

and raw metal. All the comfort of routine ripped out.

It wasn't just about Pete any more, every one we included,

It was now one inside the wires of something mean.

I held up the photo, pinched at the tops or

no finger prints could muddy the image, and laid it

on the desk. The others clustered. Curtis tried not to flinch.

Morlin tapped her knuckles soft in the corner, as if

maybe the picture would let her in une the joke.

White leaned in in and I saw his breath hang

in the air as thick as steam. What's a mean,

Lucy whispered. I didn't have an answer, not the kind

I could trust with my own mouth the word o'

looped and snarled on the back ki yuks empty ledger

ripped up and the missing truck. I listened, expecting some engine,

some door slam or Pete's low's grape outside it, But

it was just the diner's humming silence. Curtis's anger fled.

First we get played here. Some one needs to say

it out loud if Pete's not coming back. He glared

at me, what's his game? Marline stiffened her voice, napping.

Who says it was him? How do we know some

one didn't just take him the word? It take time

after ugly and slippery is a curse. Curtis got louder,

feeding off for fear here eh, maybe one of us,

maybe him. He stabbed a finger at me, then Lucy,

then out at the empty seats along the counter. Everyone's

got keys, everyone's guy grudge. Lucy's mauve trembled. You all

think someone did something to Pete. Nobody admitted it, not

in those words, but it was there, prickling under the

dirty light. White's patience. Correct, I'm going to check the truck,

just one last time. He lumbered toward the door, boots

thudding Marling followed, not trusting enough to be left alone

with the rest of us. In a minute, their ships

turned guts behind the foggy glass. Their voices bled through

the diner skin and blurry's mirrors. You see anything there?

Or no, that's just the sign and no back there.

Curtis elbowed passed, snatching the left of a ledger page

from the drawer, studying the ripped off numbers, scrinting like

he could, will have passed into order. The office seemed

smaller by the second. Lucy hugged herself, read what about

the keys, They're gone safe back lot counter. Somebody wanted access.

I hunched my shoulders up cold, tightening the nerves. Find

Pete's pick, find the key. That's how we solve this.

But that sounded half hearted, even to me. A crash

echoed from up back. Curtis jerked around, eyeing the rear door,

knuckles blanching. Lucy whimpered, almost collapsing into a seat. My

hands went to my apron, tracing the bulk of the

old photo. Not sure if I was coming myself for

hiding evidence, I spilled back from the lot. In a minute,

face is pale, white, held a fistful of mist. No

sign of Pete, truck still missing, but fog so bad

could be ten feet away and we'd never see it.

Marlene's chest heaved, it's not safe to split up. That's

how people disappear in stories. Curtis tossed the ledger page

on the counter, damp with sweat or something heavier. We're

all staying. Nobody leaves till morning. Lucy groaned, that's ires away. Ernesto,

who nobody'd invited, crept in from the kitchen, hands wringing

a dish rag, eyes dotting between us. I saw something

in the window, he announced in a stage whisper, look

like someone, but tall White's mouth twisted, probably your own reflection,

but his glance slid to the glass too. I watched

the group peach church in the room, windows each other

for a way out. The feeling inside Sunside wasn't just

dread anymore. It was a quiet kind of terror, blooming

from what had been routine. We didn't trust each other,

but we trusted outside far less. No one suggested calling

the cups again. We all knew Fawn's dead, fog too

thick for cruisers, and enough secrets here to make any

badge suspicious of us before the first pancake flipped. Instead,

I gathered the scattered scraps, Pete's old photo, the wordo,

the leisure with its last names, Morlin's seek, a clutch

of ruin polwards. I laid them in a strip down

the counter, all of its evidence of something we want explained,

but none of us was ready to claim Werenesto's voice

piped up, uncertain, you think this place is marked like

bad luck or a curse. Curtis rolled his eyes but

didn't answer. Morlin stared at the wall where the pictures

want some Someone took every face out of here on purpose,

only left that one of Pete in the counter. She

nodded to the frame I'd white so often pet grin

nodded us palm up forever, hello or goodbye. White said quiet,

I think he was saying goodbye. Nobody wanted to believe it.

Curtis bat in a way, he was pushed some one

he made him leave, or worse, His voice carried a

weight that set us all looking anywhere but at each other. Lissy,

still trembling, pressed her palm over the photo I'd left.

I keep thinking about Pete last night, She blurted. He

called me over handed. Miki said, you'll know what to

do if I'm not here to morrow. But I lost

it or some one took it. She fished in her pockets,

turned them out empty. White snored it bitter. Anyone else

got something they're not saying? I kept silent, the picture's

edge digging into my thigh. My nesto cleared his throat.

Saw Pete last week, arguing with the man I'd never

seen before, big broad, tan coat. Didn't look friendly. Marlene snapped,

so why didn't you say that before? He shrugged, didn't want.

Pete mad at me. Curtis's fist slammed the counter. Everyone's

got something missing, object memory at We're all suspects to night.

I stared at pete picture, the only one left. His

half smile flickered under the humming, fulorescence, shadow stretching, and

ways of shouldn't that? When the papron across the road

started ringing, it sounded clear as a bell behind triple

glass and a howling fog, shrill, urgent, impossible. No one

spoke for a second. I took a step toward the door,

but White was already half way through it. Lying its

skiny patch on his Denham jacket, trailing mist. He moved

like he'd been waiting for something to happen, any excuse

to get out from under the ceiling stale light. We

all crowded at the steaming window bob Is pressed together

in a way we never would have tolerated on a

normal knight. I wiped a clear patch with my sleeve.

White crossed the empty back top, each stride, clutching the

air as if it might give. He reached the phone, hesitated,

lifted the receiver. He flinched, free hands, squeezing the headress

by the booth side. No words, just the sucking sound

of static. Then Lucy hissed at breathing. I can hear it,

but that was impossible. The receiver was thirty yards away. Still,

her voice shook, and so did my nerves. After a

long moment, White slammed the phone down and stopped back,

shoving inside with a wind that seemed to drag more

fog through the threshold. He looked all wrong, face even

paler than before his door grinding so loud I thought

for a second he'd snap his molos cleaned through. Curtis

broke the tension first, Who was it? He muttered, No

one just breathing, Not Pete, not any one I know,

but I felt like they were laughing. Lucy drew a

sweater tight, stepping away from the counter, as if the

phone ring he might follow her. I want hat, I

want out red. I almost said me too, but didn't.

Marlene's purse appended in the rush. Half her contents built

across the whole way, tiles, lipstick with seats, half a

protein bar, and a stack of polar is, all with

sunnicides walls behind them. The missing photos caught in flush glare,

but each photo's faces were blurred or scraped off with

something sharp, except one. Pete alone in the corner, staring

straight at the lens, all the cheer burned off his face.

Lucy reached for the pile, but Marlene slapped her hand.

I don't remember taking those, Why would I? We stared.

One photo was different from the lur piece jacket bright

as a stop sign, but his eyes crossed out in

heavy pan, just two lines. Curtis's fingers hovered above the pile,

then drew back. You see the order. Look there's less

of him photo Bafodo like he was being raised right

in front of us. The polaroids ran in a sequence.

In the first Pete is at the register, half smiling,

second atabooth, frowning. Third, just as outline, a few shadows

where his eyes and mouth once were. Last, an empty

spot at the table. Napkins folded just so, but always

in some coroner, a piece of himself left behind. I

resisted the urge to run my thumb along the faded lines,

as if I could pull him back. Lucy started crying,

small at first, then gasping. He never said good bye.

We were just mean to him, all of us. Marlin

drew herself up, defiant, though her voice was weak. You

can't erase a man just by taking his picture off

the wall. This is more than Pete the owner wants

us out. It's a message Curtis's loft was low and ugly,

or you wanted him gone. Don't put this on us.

I never want She began, voice cracking, but the accusation

had already taken root. That's when the tree shattered in

the kitchen, plait shards skating across tile, or Anista cursing

in Spanish before yelping for help. We barreled through to

find him knee deep in coffee, still steaming from the urn.

In the puddle floated a water logged and cal scrap

one last notebook page, half melted, the words trailing off.

They want me to take a fall. They think I

owe them for what I did, what I failed to do,

nobly forgets in this place. They just moved the blame

around until someone cracks. Curtis grabbed one end of the note,

nearly snarling a confession. Our Nestor shook his head, wiping

his brow with a filthy sleeve. No, it reads like

some one set him up. He thought he was a target.

Marlene picked her way through the glass. We're just as

trapped as he was. Only differences. Some one else's picking

who goes next. Lisey's eyes rinned with salt, flicked to

each of us. We have to come clean. We have

to tell what we know, or it'll keep happening. Curtis

advanced on me. Now forcibly bred your first in lasta

where were you last night? Don't sell us a story.

I bared my teeth, not a smile. I closed with

Pete's same as always. Didn't hear a thing except him

muttering about second chances. If you want my keys, check

my pockets to yourself. He'd like that, wouldn't you. He

shoved his hands forward, rooting for evidence, but all he

hit was my apron flier, dusted and trembling. Marlene's head jerked,

all of you stop. This is in how Pete would

have wanted it. Lissy's voice cut thruthin a thread. He's

not here to want anything, Morlene, and that's on us.

Outside the fox shifted, hidden, headless, glimmered, and were gone

the weight of some one watching. Even now, The world

beyond Sunnyside felt stretched then yet impossibly far. White said,

let's check the lot again. If Pete's truck is here,

maybe there's a clip. If not, then Curtis and I nodded.

All the fight gone to old habit. We crept outside

as a pack, the chill biting harder, the lock glowing,

and the diner's exhausted neon. The fox shivered and splutter

rusted pick up sat half way into the grass, cabbdor

jar key swinging under the dim light. Pete's no doubt.

Nobody wanted to be first, so I stepped in the

driver's seat, stank of old mental cleaner and hope. The

glove box yawned open inside a battered spiral notebook. Coversow

finger worn it and nearly rubbed away. I flicked to

the last entry. Peat's handwriting snaked cross the lines, wild, frantic.

They think I'm the reason for the losses. They erased

the history, the tabs, the keepsakes, every face. The owner

told me collect then close. Don't look back. If I

say no, they'll make me disappear. If I say yes,

I lose myself. I'm tired. If I let them use me,

I let all of you use me. Tonight's the deal.

Whoever finds this, don't believe the next story you've told.

Nobody gets saved in this place. Curtis peered over my shoulder,

lipped press He blames us. Lucy clutched a window. We

let it happen, pushed him piece by piece till he

couldn't stay. The other shuffled in the night, pressing tight

our nest of them through the rest of the nobek

scraps of names, passwords, and an old photograph of the staff,

all of a smiling pete circled in red. Underneath written

in looping ink, Everyone plays their part. My breath steamed

against the cracked dashboard. I remember it swapping out a

key for Pete, thinking nothing of it, just to favor.

But what if that was the last piece, the thing

that tit the balance. It rolled in my stomach can

acid not of guilt. White's phone buzzed impossibly, screen flicked

to life. He answered, voicegrave the beat. Then he snapped

the closed Pete, just a voice. It wasn't supposed to

end this way. Curtis fell back a step. We need

to talk, all of us inside. We gathered at the counter,

numb and jagged, likewise, torn too long from the sockets.

I lined up every scrap, each torn note, each photo,

each memory burned raw. It was time to lay it bare.

Curtis was first stubborn even now. Yeah, Pete asked me

to erase some tapes a week back, said the owner

needed a fresh start. I thought it was just covering

it bad night, and never thought he'd run. Marlene picked

at the polaroids, unable to meet anyone's gaze. Ay, I

took some pictures to protect the history. But I was

told by someone from corporate, by an owner on the phone.

I don't know any more to keep extras, just in

case a scub copp is on purpose. Our nesto didn't protest.

I delivered a note from the owner. Didn't read it,

didn't care, just wanted my check. I guess. I didn't

ask who the message was for. Maybe Pete. Lucy shivering

so bad her teeth clicked, whispered. I handed over my

master key. When Pete asked, he said someone from upstairs

as would collect it. I figured, well, figured it was

fine since Pete vouched for it. They finished with me

in the hot seat. I cough. He had me swap

out the locks, said it was just routine, a new month,

new system that I did it. Didn't ask downed if

I know if it was the hammer of the nail

quite move. Last voice mountainous and low. He told me

to sign out the cash drap early. Not my job usually.

I left the register printed next day. The oddist gone

that told myself that was just the owner being cheap.

He shrugged. Defeat in every bone. We all saw the

web now, every small betrayal, each helping hand, breaking something

under the surface, all at the owner's quiet, invisible urging.

Maybe Pete tried to resist, maybe not hard enough. Lucy

looked at the polaroids again, the sequence where Pete faded

from view last image, just a ghost among empty booths.

He was disappearing for weeks, and we helped in a silence.

The only thing that moved was the clock. The iron

hand slipped past four. It was colder inside than out.

I shivered in my own skin. That's when I saw

him at his favorite booth. Pete Gray's fog at line,

a little TiO thin for the light, not a reflection,

not quite a memory, hands folded over a chip mug,

looking out into the dark, not moving, not smiling, watching

the street with the same set to his jaw I'd

seen on closing knights and funerals. The others saw or didn't,

each crossways with their own guilt. Curtis darted back against

the counter knuckles Why. Molly shrieked, then slapped her own mouth.

I was leaking what. Lucy shrank away, sagging into the

near seat. Pete did not move. I stepped forward, restless,

almost against my will. My shoes light out a desperate's queak,

and the whole night somehow shrank to the space between us. Pete,

I asked about as soft as humanly possible. You want

a sorry? Will you want? Answers, his face hollow, squared

up to me. He didn't speak, but I'll look said enough.

It's yours, now keep it or spand it. No going back.

For one second, I saw myself, even behind the counter,

omsloaded with frames, sliding down each photo, tucking them away,

the voice of some one, maybe not my own, telling

me it's only temporary, it's for the best time, folding

choices I made without ever remembering, making them all guided

by hands I never saw. Then I blinked, and Pete's

booth was empty, just a faint and print in a

pleather and a mug of the dregs of black coffee

swelling in the bottom, cooling for ears. The rest of

the Dino Lucy sobbing, Morley mumbling prayers, Curtis stirring through

me blow like old newsprint. Kurtis tried to follow, running

out the front door. Marlene staggered after looking over her shoulder,

refusing to touch the empty picture hooks. My Nesta went

back to the dishroom, Hans trembling so hard he could

hear the plates rattle in the sink. Boit left in silence,

the door banging behind him, boots echoing in the lot. Lucy,

last to move, crumpled her apron into a ball and

left it on the counter, then paused beside me, tears

streaking her cheeks. What now, she croaked. I picked up

the battered no but Pete left in his truck, and

slid it into my coat. We don't let the story disappear,

as said the promised sticky insire. The dino, scrubbed of memory,

held its silence. I made one last passel on the wall,

touching the empty hangars on the counter. Pete's coffee grew cold.

With the last night sun still and iro away. My

footsteps echured as I crossed the tile and shut off

the lights behind me, the only thing left the low

hum of the ancient fridge. The sun cracked the horizon

outside blind, still cockied and crooked from decades of hands.

I pulled my coat tighter, glancing back over my shoulder

as the first light pinted a thin strip along the

chipped for Micah. The parking lot was empty except for

one battered pickup, already losing shape in the brightening mist

under my fingers. Pete's confession pulsed heavy as a heartbeat.

I didn't know if I keep the promise, didn't know

if anyone ever did. I walked out into the growing lay,

locking the door for the last time. The silence that

followed said more than I ever could. The silence that

followed said more than I ever could. They lingered, hand

fled in the lock glass, waiting for San to creep

back in an engine in the side lot, Marline's laugh,

even the clock of Curtis's boots overtile. But there was nothing,

not even birds in outside, just the scrape of wind

shoving low clouds across the bitchwo men, lamp pole swaying

without care for any of us left behind. The coal

peeled at my skin. I holed Pete's notebook tight against

my roots, and shuffled over to the passenger bench, blinking

in the harsh chalk, a light dribbling through the bland.

My stomach boiled. In the aftermath, everyone gone, every routine appended.

It all felt too thin, too raw. All the faces

wipe from the wall were alive in my mind, burnt

into the Dino scenes, grins, grimaces, stiff suits, peach, crooked

smile in a Christmas hat Lucy's arm slung around Old

Time the fry Man. Every memory felt pride, loose and drifting,

like the place itself kept trying to wriggle out of

my hands. I fumbled for a mug port what little

coffee was left, still warm, barely the pot would have

spluttered out on its own soon, like everything else. I

sat in Peat's booth, cheep, pressed to the flaking vinyl,

breathing the air that held his gross. Not a word

from the others, not a single car in the lot

four gun Patchee, but the world outside still blank, featureless.

All that was left was the aching, waiting hum that

prickled my head After a bit. The owner should have

been a myth, but was to popped up in my mind,

never seen, only felt if he was coming. He was

taking his sweet time, sending someone else to clean the mess,

or maybe he already had moving a slight pieces on

a checkerboard, nobody hearing his voice but Pete. Until Pete's

voice ran out to I found myself shoving nekkins into

pocket amos, just so my hands wouldn't drift back to

the note becored the poloids. Every knuckle was a flint

sparking of memory. A week ago, Pete stood here scribbling

on a deposit slip grew it pale with worry. Some

folks heat's head, eyes flicking up, how desperate to be erased.

Others just tired of being remembered ron. I chewed that

to pieces and still found nothing good inside. I busied

myself with pointless closing chores, just had it beating out,

meaning wiping down counters, stacking chip saucers, retying the trash.

I flipped off a light, then on again. I'm sure

if I wanted to place brighter or hollow. By the

time the sun was flowering over the rooftops, I nearly

believed Pete might walk in, gribbing about being up before

the roost air, wanting his moccotter and his eggs an broken.

But the only thing that showed up was my own

stupid hope, refusing to die. The air shifted. I looked

up and froyers. A shadow hunched in the lat shaped

too small to beat white, too sturdy to be Marleye

or Lucy. The fog spatted out near the service door.

My body jerked half up and half fruited in the

booth before I caught myself, just the trash bins rattling,

swinging in the wind. I sat again, got sliding up

into my trot heart thudding so loud, I could almost

feel the countervirate back again. I asked the echo, fingers

tracing all burns on the fomyca, or are you just

taking stock? Nobody answered, Maybe nobody ever could half in

mouth pulled beneath the booth's table, trickling out in pimper reminders,

the lingering grease, smouged receipts, the snap booth seams, the

clump of lost napkins under Pete's usual spot. I poled

through Pete's notebook for page with sense, but all I

found was loops and dashes, names crossed and cant ae scrawled,

anxious ruts left by a man watching the wall's press close.

Sometimes I could see what we'd lost. Other times all

I caught was the greasy shine of the window and

my own sagging face shining back. The blame grew outwards,

filling cracks nobody noticed when the place was busy, My

part to every one's part. It was always the little things,

the missing back, the lock changed, the secretswap, the photo discarded,

beyond what we told the each other. It was the

silence that did us in the way every voice eventually

found his echo and died there. I sat for a

long time, sometimes with my eyes closed, sometimes open. I

let the diner breathe, waiting for something, anything, to admit

what it had become. While I did stand, knees creaking.

The sun was as scarlet slice over the warehouse roof

my feet picked skin prickling with evaporated cold. I left

the counter as it was, let Pete mug Linger beside

the register and pocketed what was left of the wreck

polar It was just in case somebody wanted to proof,

though I doubted it. I was nearly out the door

when I turned for a last look the finer photograph

Pete as a kid, not smiling, how shadowed and mystery

protruded from the ledger on his desk, as if the

place was pushing him out, making sure of the story

ended the same way for anyone who followed outside. Traffic

thickened in the distance, and a police siren boomed down

the next avenue. The world rolled on, no special curdance,

no funeral bell, just life, going about its business as

if sunner sized twisted night had never happened. Escalation was

supposed to come as fairer punishment, but it came as blankness,

a closing over, a smoothing away, no one to blame

but each other, a memories that slipped back with the

harder I clon. Nearly two weeks went by before I

let myself set foot near the place again. I told

myself it was just to pick up my old pocket

I've left in the side drawer, half forgotten. I circled

the building twice before finally going in, feeling like a

trespasser in my own skin. Inside the wall that once

held the photos were spackled and swaded clean, bright primus,

swallowing everything that used to matter. The grime was gone,

a fry silent, and the air heavy with lemon and paint.

It could have belonged to anyone, or to no one

at all. The counter was dustless, wept straight to its edges,

a memory scrub until it couldn't find its own face.

I wandered to the side hallway, hand trailing along smith plaster,

where we'd once hammered nails, laughing over whose picture looked

worse under the neon glare, a new frame, something cheap, shiny,

not irons, hung askew, as if nailed in a hurry,

out of place, out of time. Inside a photograph, the

crew from years ago, heat in the back, grinning, the

only one blurred and faded eyes, just two stains under

the overhead light. The rest me Curtis, Lucy, Marlene, even

old Sam, all in for smile poses, brightness bled up

by over exposure or heavy hand. It took me seconds

to recognize the handwriting scrolled beneath, sharp etched into the mat,

and nobody remembers, but the walls do. My blood ran cold.

I trusted the frame strait with us in the urged

pocket it, not wanting to smuggle any more ghosts away,

I locked up after myself, the clatter of the bowl

dickoing into early dusk outside. The sky had gone the

color of all dishwater. No one saw me leave or

watched as I stuffed the last polaroids in my jacket

and walked to my car. Even the walls might forget

us in time, But I kept the promise i'd made.

If memory is a debt, I'd keep paying piece by

ragged piece, even if I never know who's collecting. Even

the walls might forget us in time. But I kept

the promise i'd made. If memory is a debt, I'd

keep paying piece by ragged piece, even if I never

know who's collecting. When I stepped out into the gravel lot,

keys nestled in my palm, I half expected to see

one of the crew waiting, making some snide remark about

ghosts or old men, not letting go that the old

sunside sense a strange humor. The block was quieter than

I remembered in not silence, but a kind of low,

hissing tire was passing far off little else. My reflection

dragged beside me in every window I pass, doubled and thinned.

At my car, I opened my coat, caught the battered

edges of Pete snow book and the blow polaroids. Part

of me wanted to hold them, scout everything across the

yellow grass, call it a debt repaid, but my hands,

shaking tightened Instead. A breeze gusted bitter for June. It

rottled the dinose vent slots and sent the only other

sound of fint tapping from inside a crawling up my spine.

I fumble all the keys. Something moved past the dark window,

or maybe it was just shifting light, just a scrap

of my own reflection bending my legs ached, but I

stayed rooted. No sudden ending to that night. I guess

no one to pass the story to the polaroids in

my pocket. Felt like ballast proof a dozen times over.

That erasing is never clean. As I turned away from

the locked door, movement by the alley caught my eye.

Not Pete, nobody, I recognized it. Just a tall figure,

big shoulder, a tan coat flapping open in the wind.

He stood in the shadows by the old dumpster, face,

liked away by distance and dusk, not watching exactly, but present,

the way a dew bill might linger at the edge

of a bot ab. I stared, maybe too long. The

figure made no gesture, didn't seem bothered I'd seen him,

just waited, posture, steady, as so, confident the debt would

find its own way home, one way or another. I

slid into my car and sat there, engine rattling, hand

clutching the wheel, bones, aching, mind, skyring itself roll overhead.

The signs neem flickered on half the s all of you,

the rest dark, the word broken into nothing. Sun sighed

harshall like, as half lit, half race, trying for holt

and failing every time. Week sunlight had finally burned through

the club bank, painted a slant through the windshield, turning

Pete's battered nobic, gold flecked and immutable. For a second,

it felt like a warning or relief. The world outside

the diner didn't care if our story fraded. It would

roll on, no matter how much we tried to pin

down a face, a debt or reason. Her rested my

head against the thin stirring wheel, breath fogging the inside glass,

waiting for the moment to pass. Part of me ach

to Billie peated chosen freedom. But every sign, every race,

for every touchy memory, said otherwise. I snapped in the

radio static, somewhat past the interference. An old voice wabbled

half a chorus of long black veil, the lyric about

slipping away, dying nemus. I turned the dial, but the

diner shone in the side mirror, impossible to ignore. I

could almost hear the bell, the echo of the door.

All the old voices layered up until I couldn't pull

mine loose from the rest. My last look back, nothing moved,

not even the wind now, only that tall figure melting

into the shadow of the alley, just missing memory. Until

he was gone to whatever story he brought, he kept

to himself. I drove out slow. The notebook thudded in

my pocket, a promise, trying to remember itself, or not

let itself be forgotten. If the walls do you remember,

let them keep the secrets. I kept mine too long already.

But if deck can be paid by memory, then I'd

carry Pete the others. The whole worn shape of Sunisie

for as long as there is anyone left to remember

it at all.