He picked his city center location, the first one he had launched, where his mother once assisted with baking pies. As he stepped onto the pavement, the hum of traffic and morning pedestrians surrounded him. The aroma of frying bacon wafted through the air. His pulse quickened. Inside the café, the recognizable red seats and patterned tile floor welcomed him.

He made his way across the street to his downtown diner — the very first one he had ever opened, back when success felt like a distant dream. His mother had once stood in its tiny kitchen, rolling pie crusts and humming old country tunes. This place was his anchor, a reminder of the journey that started it all.

The air carried the scents of bacon, coffee, and freshly baked bread. Normally, those smells brought pride. Today, they made his chest tighten. Complaints had been stacking up: slow service, rude staff, sloppy food. It wasn’t just occasional mistakes — it was a trend. To understand what had gone wrong, he needed to see it for himself, unnoticed.

Inside, the diner looked unchanged — red vinyl booths, checkered floors, shiny chrome edges. But the warmth had vanished. No greetings. No smiles. Just indifference.

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