The alarm buzzed at 4:45 AM, the way it always did—rude and persistent, but oddly comforting in its familiarity. I rolled over, slapped the snooze button on instinct, then sighed into the soft glow of early morning. It was too early for most seventeen-year-olds, but for me, it was the beginning of my favorite part of the day.
Dad was already up, probably downstairs putting on the first pot of coffee. I could smell it through the floorboards—dark roast, nutty, a little bitter. The smell alone could drag me out of the deepest sleep. I slid on my flannel shirt, jeans, and beat-up Converse, then padded down the stairs.
"Morning, kiddo," Dad said, looking up from the griddle. His apron was already smeared with a bit of egg yolk, and he held a spatula like it was an extension of his arm. The fluorescent lights cast soft halos on the chrome and Formica.
"Morning, Pops," I said, grabbing two mugs. I poured for both of us, black for him, cream and sugar for me—just the way we always did.
Carter's Diner was already humming by 5:15. The sign outside flickered a little but never failed to draw in the early risers. The booths were vinyl—red, worn, and patched in places—but every one of them had a story. The counter stools squeaked, the kind of squeak you only get from years of turning back and forth while waiting for pancakes or grilled cheese. And the kitchen? A symphony. The sizzle of bacon hitting the grill, the clink-clatter of plates stacking, the low hum of the old radio playing jazz like clockwork.
"Ethan! My usual?" Old Mrs. Bell called from her usual booth.
"You got it, Miss Bell. One short stack, extra syrup, light on judgment," I grinned, pouring her coffee.
We were a team—Dad flipping omelets, me on toast duty and tables, and Mom joining later with her bright smile and way of making everyone feel like family. Even with the rush, there was a rhythm to it. A purpose. I loved the way my hands moved without thinking, the way I could hear a ticket and already know who ordered it.
But deep down, it wasn't enough.
Sometimes, during the lull between breakfast and the school run, I'd stare at the calendar on the wall, right next to our old Polaroid of opening day ten years ago, and dream bigger. A chain of Carter's Diners, each one with booths like these, with pancakes as fluffy, with that same smell of warmth and welcome. I imagined my parents not working eighteen-hour days. I imagined a future where this diner wasn't the last of its kind.
That morning, as Dad wiped his brow, I leaned on the counter. "Hey, Pops... You ever think about expanding? Like, really expanding?"
He chuckled, setting down the spatula. "Sure. About once a week. Then I look at the bills and remember why we're still here."
"I'm serious," I said. "A Carter's in every city. Same soul, just...more room for people to fall in love with it."
He paused, then looked at me with a kind of tired pride. "I'd love that, Ethan. I really would. But it's tough staying true to yourself in a world run by franchises and food courts. Those chains—they don't care about folks, just the bottom line."
"I'd care," I said quietly.
"I know you would."
His eyes lingered on mine, and for a moment, we were just two dreamers in a cramped kitchen, daring to believe.
At 7:15, just before I had to rush to school, Melanie walked in—precisely on time, as always. Her blond hair was pulled back in a perfect ponytail, her backpack slung over one shoulder like it belonged in a fashion magazine. She kissed my cheek and glanced around.
"Still smells like grease and maple syrup in here," she said, crinkling her nose slightly.
"That's the Carter's signature," I said, trying to catch her hand. She let me, but her fingers were cool in mine.
"Ethan... don't you ever want something different?"
"Like what?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
She gave a half-shrug. "I don't know. Maybe a breakfast that doesn't come with a side of dish soap and heat lamps."
I smiled, tried to laugh it off. "One day you'll be eating your avocado toast at Carter's Express in Midtown Manhattan, and I'll say I told you so."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "We'll see."
I watched her walk out, feeling that space between us grow just a little wider. I still loved her—more than she probably knew—but sometimes I wondered if she loved me, or just the idea of me that used to fit her life better.
By second period, I'd shaken off the fog. Aaron—my best friend since middle school—elbowed me in the ribs as we walked down the hallway toward Econ.
"Hey, entrepreneur boy, you joining the club or just dreaming in syrup?"
"Joining," I said. "Tomorrow's meeting."
"Nice. I hear Lucas Sterling's gonna be there."
"Lucas?" I scoffed. "You mean, The Sterling's son?"
"Yep. Dude probably thinks startups are something his chef makes him for breakfast."
We both laughed. I shoved Aaron lightly as we ducked into class. But the name stuck with me. Lucas Sterling. I didn't know why, but it felt like a thread—one that would unravel something big later.
That night, we closed a little late. Mom had gone home early with a headache, and Dad was in the back tallying receipts. I was wiping down the last booth when I saw him.
The man sat alone near the window, dressed in a long black coat, silver cufflinks glinting under the fluorescents. He hadn't spoken much. Just pointed to the meatloaf special and coffee. Now his plate was clean, his cup empty. No expression, no smile. Just cold eyes and stillness.
"Everything good?" I asked, grabbing the check.
He looked at me for a long second. Then, without a word, he pulled out a thick leather wallet and dropped a crisp hundred on the table. He stood, adjusted his coat, and handed me a small card before walking out into the night.
I flipped the card over.
"Delicious. A hidden gem – R.S."
I frowned, then smiled, pocketing it. Maybe just a food critic. Maybe someone rich who liked a good meal.
I forgot about the card before I even turned off the lights.
I stepped outside, locking the door behind me. The city buzzed around me—horns, footsteps, neon signs flickering like fireflies. Above, the stars tried their best to shine through the light pollution. I took a deep breath, hands in my jacket pockets, and let the moment sink in.
Everything felt...right.
Perfect, almost.
But the wind shifted. Cold, sharp. The kind that whispers warnings.
And I didn't know it yet, but everything was about to change.