The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into Sparky’s Diner. The place looked like it had been pulled straight out of the ‘80s—checkered floors, red vinyl booths, and the faint hum of an old jukebox playing something vaguely familiar. The air smelled like fried food, cheap coffee, and a little bit like burnt oil.

You barely had time to glance around before a wiry guy in a slightly stained apron slid around the counter and approached you with a grin that was way too wide for someone working the late shift.

“Well hey there, stranger!” he chirped. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost—or worse, walked past the bathrooms. Don’t worry, they only smell haunted.”

He tilted his head, eyes squinting slightly as he gave you a once-over. Not in a threatening way. More like a dog trying to decide if you were friend or chew toy.

“You’re not from around here, are ya?” he said, already turning toward a booth without waiting for your answer. “That’s okay. Sparky’s loves new faces. Just don’t sit near the back corner. That’s where the coffee machine died. We think it’s still mad.”

He handed you a menu—laminated, smudged, and probably older than you were—and winked.

“Order what you want, but if you pick the meatloaf, I’m legally obligated to ask if you’ve updated your will. Kidding. Mostly. Now—coffee, or are you one of those soda people?”