—racked sidewalks, rusted fire escapes, the whine of distant sirens, a late-night diner that doesn’t close, even though it should have years ago
The sign still flickers: OPEN ALL NIGHT,
though no one changed the bulbs since ’98.
The counter’s chipped, the booths all lean,
the jukebox plays a song unseen.
And every night at 3:13,
the barista starts her rounds.
No eyes, no skin, just apron, name tag and steam.
She hums a tune the old ones dream.
Her hands don’t shake, but yours will soon,
this brew was filtered through the moon.
She asks if it’s for here or go.
You say “to go.” You never go.
The coffee’s black. It doesn’t cool.
It smells like burnt-out vestibules.
And when you sip, the air gets thin.
A baby cries. You taste your sins.
The door stays closed. The night stays long.
The jukebox plays your parents’ song.
📜 Graveyard Shift – The Recipe
Ingredients:
- 1 oz Espresso (pulled from a machine that predates fire codes)
- 1 oz Grief (aged, urban)
- 1 whisper of static (optional, deeply cursed)
- Cup: cracked ceramic, lipstick stain optional
Instructions:
Sit at the counter. Don’t speak. Place two coins beside the napkin holder. When the espresso is pulled, don’t break eye contact. Sip once. Tip well.
Leave before your reflection asks you to stay.