The rain drummed softly against the window of the dimly lit diner. The place smelled of old coffee and fried eggs, the kind of scent that clings to a place too familiar with loneliness. At the far end, in a red leather booth, two strangers sat across from each other.
One, an older man with a weathered face and eyes that carried the weight of years, stirred his coffee absentmindedly. The other, a younger man, barely in his twenties, glanced at his phone before setting it face down on the table. They hadn’t spoken much since the older man asked if he could share the booth—something about the bar stools being uncomfortable.
“You ever hear about the man who met himself?” the older man finally said, his voice gravelly with age and untold stories. The younger man raised an eyebrow but said nothing, so the stranger continued.
“This man, let’s call him Joe, was traveling through a town he’d never been to before. He checked into a small motel off the highway, the kind with flickering neon signs and peeling wallpaper. He wasn’t planning to stay long—just needed a night’s rest before heading further west.
“But something was off about the place. The woman at the front desk stared at him a little too long when he signed his name. The bellboy, a wiry kid, muttered something under his breath as he handed Joe his key. And the room… it felt lived in. Not in the way hotels usually do. There were clothes in the closet. A book open on the nightstand. A half-drunk cup of coffee, still warm, sitting by the bed.”
The younger man leaned forward slightly. “Someone else’s room?” he asked.
The older man smiled faintly. “That’s what Joe thought. He marched back to the front desk, but before he could speak, the woman just handed him another key. ‘Try this one,’ she said. ‘Might be better suited to you.’ He didn’t question it—just wanted to get some rest. But as he turned to leave, he caught sight of a framed newspaper on the wall. And there, on the front page, was his own face.
“The date was that day. The headline read: ‘Local Man Vanishes Without a Trace.’”
The younger man exhaled through his nose, smirking. “Sounds like something out of a movie.”
The older man shrugged. “Maybe. But Joe… he wasn’t in a movie. He was in that town. And when he went back to his car, it wasn’t there anymore. The parking lot was empty. And when he looked around, the streetlights flickered, the motel sign dimmed, and everything around him seemed to blur, like the edges of a dream unraveling. The last thing he heard before everything went dark was his own voice, whispering in his ear: ‘You weren’t supposed to come back.’”
Silence settled between them, thick as the night outside. The younger man chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Good story, old man.”
The older man simply took a sip of his coffee, his gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window. The neon light outside flickered once, twice.
“I thought so too,” he murmured. “Until it happened to me.”
The younger man’s smirk faded, his fingers tightening around his cup. He wanted to say something, maybe call it nonsense, but something in the old man’s eyes kept him quiet.
Outside, the rain kept falling, and somewhere in the distance, a neon sign buzzed and went dark.
