My name is Laura. I’m forty-eight years old, and I own a tiny diner wedged between a pawn shop and a boarded-up laundromat in the heart of the city. The sign outside flickers on cold nights, and the booths squeak when customers slide in. Most days, the place smells like burnt coffee and nostalgia.
This diner was built by my grandfather. He opened it with his bare hands after the war, hammering nails late into the night, convinced that as long as people needed to eat, they’d need a place like this. When he passed, he left it to me — not because I was the most capable, but because I loved it the most. Continue reading…
