Gemotions

"The Lighthouse Diner... gone?" Michael whispered, staring at the newspaper clipping. It was an institution, a place he'd visited since he was a child. The news sent a shiver down his spine.

He remembered the old, chipped vinyl booths, the salt and pepper shakers shaped like lighthouses. He could almost hear the clatter of plates, the murmur of conversations, the clinking of coffee cups. He remembered the feeling of safety that came with stepping into that familiar space.

He'd eaten there with his father, shared countless stories. He felt a deep ache, a sense of loss that went beyond the closure of a restaurant. He felt the need to call his dad immediately.