Varg Pov

I pulled into the driveway of Mol-ten Diner, a place that had always felt like home to me. It wasn’t just a diner, it was a haven of memories, the kind that lingered long after the taste of a good meal. My parents had brought me here when I was a child, and later, I’d brought my ex here, trying to share the warmth and nostalgia this place carried.

The diner had a charm that never faded: the retro sign with its neon glow, the sound of the bell jingling as the door opened, and the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with sizzling bacon. Even now,...