The Door of Unmade Choices: Chapter 23

 

Chapter 23 — Silas Tells the Truth

We decided we needed a bite to eat. The Perpetual Egg was open but empty in the way only diners ever are—lights on, grill warm, the sense that someone could come in at any moment, but probably wouldn’t. The clock over the counter ticked too loud. Coffee steamed like it was trying to escape.

Frank sat across from me in a cracked vinyl booth. He had both hands wrapped around his mug, not drinking it. Just holding on. Me? I was devouring an open-faced roast beef sandwich like it was my last meal before being led to the electric chair.

The door hadn’t followed us here. That bothered me more than if it had.

“You ever notice,” Frank said, staring into the coffee like it might answer him back, “how some places make it harder to lie?”

I glanced around. The laminated menu. The pie case. The waitress pretending not to listen while listening to everything.

“Yeah,” I said. “Diners are like confessionals. A place to share what you wouldn’t anywhere else. No judgement.”

He smiled, thin and tired. Then the smile went away.

“I keep thinking I should ask you something,” he said. “But every time I get close, it feels rude.”

“That’s usually the good stuff,” I said. “Fire away.”

He hesitated. “You ever… have one?”

I didn’t ask him to clarify. We both knew what he meant. I washed down a bite of my sandwich with a sip of coffee. It tasted burned and familiar. The kind of coffee that doesn’t pretend to be good for you.

“There was a door,” I said.

Frank looked up fast, then stopped himself. Let me keep going.

“It showed up years ago. Seemingly out of nowhere.” I stared at the Formica tabletop. There was a cigarette burn shaped vaguely like a state I’d once meant to move to. “It was small. Domestic. Ordinary.”

His fingers tightened around the mug.

“It showed me a life where I stayed,” I said. “Didn’t leave town. Didn’t take the case that turned into the next case that turned into… this.”

I gestured at the trench coat hanging off the booth, like it was an accusation.

“A life where I chose something simple and didn’t keep an escape hatch in my pocket.”

Frank swallowed. “And?”

“And I didn’t open it.”

I expected relief when I said that. I didn’t get any.

“I told myself it was discipline,” I said. “That wanting something quiet meant I was giving up. That moving forward always meant moving away.”

The grill sizzled behind the counter. The waitress poured coffee somewhere else. Life went on, inconsiderate as ever.

“I didn’t fail that life,” I said. “But I didn’t let myself want it either. And that’s the part that sticks.”

Frank nodded slowly. Not in agreement but Recognition.

“So you don’t regret it?” he asked.

I thought about that. Took my time by savoring more of my meal. The mashed potatoes were pasty but tolerable.

“I regret pretending it didn’t matter,” I said. “I regret acting like I was immune to wondering who I’d be if I’d stayed.”

He looked down at his coffee. “That’s what scares me. The wondering.”

“The door feeds on that,” I said. “Not the regret itself. The curiosity of choosing differently. The What If.”

Frank’s eyes flicked to the diner windows, half-expecting to see wood grain and a handle where glass should be.

“It feels personal,” he said.

“It is,” I said. “Just not judgmental. That thing doesn’t care if you froze. It just wants you to stop lying about why.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then, softer: “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not acting like you’ve got it all figured out,” he said. “For admitting you still live with it.”

“I do,” I said. “But I don’t negotiate with it anymore.” That landed. I could feel it. The way his shoulders eased, just a fraction, like someone loosening a knot they didn’t realize they’d been holding.

We sat there a while longer. The clock ticked. The coffee cooled. I cleaned my plate despite my stomach telling me to stop already. When we finally stood to leave, I noticed something I hadn’t before.

The reflection in the diner window didn’t quite match either of us. Then it was gone. And somewhere beyond the parking lot, something listened and waited.

*****

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