Thirty years ago, promises felt simple. Friendships made in youth seemed unbreakable, immune to distance, silence, and the slow march of adulthood. You thought that if a pact was meaningful enough, life would bend to keep it.
But time moves quietly. It slips. It steals. And sometimes, decades pass before you realize what’s gone.
On Christmas morning, Ray stood outside May’s Diner, watching snow slide from the roof into gray slush. The diner hadn’t changed. Same red vinyl booths. Same crooked bell. Same smell of burnt coffee and fried food. Noon. Thirty years later.
Inside, Ted sat in the corner booth, hands wrapped around a mug that had long since cooled. Silver hair, a face carved with time—but that familiar smile anchored Ray. They hugged, compressing decades into a few seconds.
The third seat remained empty.
Rick had always been late. Always apologetic. Thirty years of silence hadn’t erased that expectation.
They reminisced about the night of the pact. Christmas Eve. Snow on asphalt. Cheap booze. Music too loud. Rick had suggested the promise casually, but it was meant. Same town. Same diner. Thirty years. No excuses.
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