The air in Willowridge had a strange way of feeling heavier some days. Like something unseen was pressing against my skin, making me more aware of my surroundings, more attuned to every glance, every whisper.
I needed normalcy—something mundane to drown out the growing unease from my conversation with Nolan. So, I went to the diner.
The bell chimed as I stepped inside, the scent of coffee and warm maple syrup wrapping around me. The place was half-full, a mixture of locals hunched over steaming mugs, engaged in quiet conversations. The soft murmur of voices mixed with the sound of forks clinking against plates, the occasional scrape of chairs against the floor. It was familiar, grounding—exactly what I needed.4
Linda, the diner’s owner, waved from behind the counter, her apron dusted wi
