The six-block walk to The Blue Moon Diner felt simultaneously shorter and infinitely longer than usual. Casey moved quickly, propelled by a nervous energy that vibrated just beneath her skin, a dissonant hum that seemed to harmonize with the memory of the feather. Every shadow seemed to stretch menacingly, every gust of wind sounded like whispering voices or the rush of unseen wings. She kept glancing behind her, half-expecting to see the tall, coat-wearing stranger or, worse, a giant raven swooping down from the streetlights. She clutched her backpack straps so tightly her knuckles were white.

  When the familiar, slightly crooked neon sign of The Blue Moon finally came into view, glowing an inviting azure against the darkening twilight sky, Casey didn’t feel the usual wave of weary resignation. Instead, a jolt of something akin to fear, mixed with a desperate hope for normalcy, shot through her. The diner, her mundane anchor in a sea of odd hours and stale coffee, suddenly looked… fragile. Like its cheerful glow could flicker out at any moment, revealing something else lurking underneath.

  She hesitated on the sidewalk, taking a deep breath that smelled of car exhaust and impending rain. Get a grip, Casey. It was just a diner. Just another shift. The feather… maybe it blew in somehow? Maybe Mrs. Petrov’s cat brought it upstairs? (Did Mrs. Petrov even have a cat?) Explanations. There had to be explanations. But the memory of that low, humming energy, the impossible blackness of the feather… it stuck like tar.

  Pushing the door open, the familiar jingle of the bell above sounded jarringly loud. The usual smell of old grease, burnt coffee, and bleach cleaner washed over her, a scent she normally ignored but tonight found almost overwhelmingly real. Chloe, the evening waitress – perpetually scrolling through her phone and complaining about her boyfriend – was wiping down the counter with lacklustre swipes.

  "Hey," Chloe mumbled without looking up. "You're early."

  "Couldn't wait to dive back into the glamour," Casey retorted, dropping her backpack behind the counter with more force than necessary. Her voice sounded almost normal, a minor miracle.

  Chloe finally glanced up, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Someone sounds chipper. Rough day sleeping?"

  "Something like that," Casey said evasively, grabbing a clean apron. "Anything exciting happen? World end? Did Gus finally fix the air conditioning?"

  "Nah. Slow night. Guy in booth four tried to pay with a coupon for a different restaurant, claimed it was 'close enough'. And Barry almost set the grill on fire trying to flambé something for his own dinner. Usual stuff." Chloe checked her phone again. "Alright, my ride's here and since you're already here, it's all yours. Don't let the crazies bite." She grabbed her purse and practically sprinted out the door.

  Casey watched her go, a pang of something that might have been envy hitting her. Chloe’s world seemed so… uncomplicated. Boyfriends, bad coupons, minor kitchen fires. Casey’s world now potentially included haunted jukeboxes, ageless strangers, and mysterious, energy-humming feathers appearing in locked apartments.

  She tied on her apron, the familiar weight settling around her waist. Routine. Focus on the routine. She checked the coffee levels, starting a fresh pot of the Midnight Crude. Checked the napkin dispensers Chloe had inevitably failed to refill. Checked the salt and pepper shakers, half-expecting one to leap into her hand. They remained stubbornly inert.

  Sal wasn't in his usual booth yet. It was still too early, just past 10:30 PM. The only customers were a young couple sharing headphones and a milkshake, oblivious to the world, and a lone man reading a newspaper at the far end of the counter. Barry was in the kitchen, the rhythmic thump-thump of his knife hitting a cutting board oddly soothing.

  Casey leaned against the counter, trying to project an air of bored competence she didn't feel. Her eyes kept scanning the diner – the checkered floor, the gleaming (mostly) chrome, the slightly cracked red vinyl on the booths. It all looked the same, yet subtly different. Like watching a movie where you know the set is about to crumble. She kept touching her apron pocket, then remembering she’d left the feather on the table back in her apartment. Had she imagined the hum? Had she imagined the feather itself?

  No. It was real. The sudden certainty was cold, sharp. The feather was real. The pulsing button was real. The stranger was real. The jukebox scream was real. The other little glitches – the lights, the salt shaker, the washing machine, the library kiosk – they suddenly seemed less like isolated incidents and more like… symptoms.

  But symptoms of what? Her going crazy? Or something else?

  The bell above the door jingled, and Sal shuffled in, shaking imaginary dust off his worn jacket. "Evenin', Red," he grumbled, heading for his usual booth.

  "Hey, Sal," Casey managed, grabbing the coffee pot. "Rough day fighting off retirement boredom?"

  "Tell me about it," he sighed, settling into the vinyl seat with a familiar groan. "Tried watching one of them streaming shows Brenda recommended. Too many people talking too fast about nothing." He pushed his usual mug towards her. "Hit me with the good stuff."

  As Casey poured his coffee, her hand trembled slightly. Sal, the reliable, grumpy fixture of her nights. Was he just a lonely old man? In her current state of heightened awareness, a new thought struck her: his unwavering presence on her shifts, specifically. Was it just habit? Or was he sticking around specifically for… her? And if so, why? The questions felt dangerous, destabilizing. She focused on pouring, on not spilling.

  "So, uh," she began, trying to sound casual, "that jukebox thing last night. You really heard stuff like that before?"

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  Sal took a slow sip of coffee, squinting thoughtfully. "Well, maybe not exactly like that. Usually just static, or it plays the wrong song loud. That… that was a new kinda racket." He shrugged. "Like Gus says, thing's old. Probably picked up some weird radio signal from Russia or Mars, who knows?" He dismissed it with a wave of his hand, turning his attention to the small tabletop jukebox selector at his booth.

  Mars. Right. Casey retreated to the counter, feeling foolish. Of course Sal didn’t have any secret knowledge. He was just Sal.

  The next hour passed in a strange lull. A few more customers drifted in – night shift workers grabbing a quick bite, a group of students arguing about philosophy over fries. Casey took orders, delivered food, refilled coffee. She moved on autopilot, her mind racing. Every reflection she caught – in the pie display, the chrome napkin holders, even the dark coffee pooling in a mug – showed her own wide, mismatched eyes staring back, looking slightly haunted.

  She was wiping down the counter near the pass-through window when Barry slid a plate onto the shelf with slightly more force than usual, making her jump. It was a simple order – cheeseburger deluxe, fries well-done.

  "Order up," Barry grunted, his usual terse announcement. But as Casey reached for the plate, he didn't immediately turn back to his grill. His heavily tattooed arms rested on the stainless steel shelf, and his gaze, usually fixed on his cooking or resolutely avoiding eye contact, flickered towards her. It was a brief glance, almost imperceptible, but his dark eyes seemed to hold an unusual intensity. Then he grunted again, something that sounded vaguely like "'Ware," before turning back to flip burgers.

  "'Ware?" Casey repeated under her breath. Aware? Beware? Wear? What the hell did that mean? Barry wasn’t exactly known for conversation, let alone cryptic warnings. Was she imagining things again? Reading meaning into a random grunt? Probably. But the intensity of his brief look felt real, adding another layer to the growing unease.

  It was just after midnight when it happened. The diner was quiet again. Sal was reading his paper. The students had left. A trucker was methodically working his way through a T-bone steak in a back booth. Casey was restocking the sugar caddies at an empty table near the front window, her back to the counter.

  She heard a faint scraping sound behind her. Thinking it was just the ice machine or Barry cleaning the grill, she ignored it at first. Then she heard it again, louder this time. A distinct scrape… drag… scrape on the linoleum floor.

  She turned around slowly.

  One of the heavy, chrome-legged counter stools was moving. All by itself.

  It wasn’t just vibrating or wobbling. It was deliberately, purposefully scraping its way across the floor, moving jerky inch by jerky inch away from the counter and towards the center of the aisle. There was no one near it. No vibrations from passing trucks. No draft strong enough to move something that heavy. It was just… moving.

  Casey froze, her breath caught in her throat. The sugar caddy slipped from her numb fingers, spilling packets across the table and floor with a soft rustle that sounded deafening in the sudden silence.

  The stool continued its slow, deliberate journey, leaving faint scratches on the worn floor tiles. It stopped abruptly about three feet from the counter, perfectly centered in the aisle, as if presenting itself.

  Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her ears. This wasn't a flicker. This wasn't a glitch. This wasn't a faulty wire or a tired hallucination. This was a heavy object moving with obvious intent in a well-lit diner.

  She looked wildly around. Sal hadn't noticed; he was engrossed in his paper. The trucker in the back was focused on his steak. Barry… she couldn't see into the kitchen from this angle. Was she the only one seeing this?

  No. Barry's earlier warning. 'Ware. He knew. Or sensed something.

  The air in the diner suddenly felt thick, charged, like the moments before a lightning strike. The low hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to intensify, resonate. Casey felt the hair on her arms stand on end. The strange energy, the hum she’d felt from the feather, was here now, concentrated around the rogue stool.

  Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to overwhelm her. Her first instinct was to scream, to run out the door and never look back. But underneath the terror, a different, unfamiliar feeling flickered – a spark of defiant anger. What the hell is this? Who – or what – was doing this? Messing with her? Invading her space? Breaking the damn rules of reality?

  "Okay," she whispered, her voice trembling but tight with fury. "Okay, very funny. Put it back."

  She glared at the stool, pouring all her fear and anger and confusion into that single, silent command. She didn't know why she did it. It was absurd. Talking to furniture. But some instinct, buried deep beneath the layers of sarcasm and denial, compelled her.

  For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. The stool sat there, inanimate, mocking her. Casey felt a fresh wave of panic mixed with humiliation. She was crazy. Talking to stools.

  Then, with an audible groan of metal scraping against linoleum, the stool began to move again. Slowly, jerkily, it reversed its path, scraping its way back towards the counter until it nudged gently against its original spot.

  It stopped. The humming energy in the air dissipated instantly. The fluorescent lights returned to their normal, dull buzz. The diner felt quiet, ordinary again.

  Casey stood frozen, staring at the stool, her chest heaving. It had listened. Or… something had. Had she done that? Had her anger, her desperate command, somehow… moved it back? The idea was terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly insane.

  She sank onto the nearest booth seat, her legs suddenly shaky. She dropped her head into her hands, taking deep, ragged breaths. Okay. No more denial. No more rationalizations. Washing machines could break, kiosks could freeze, jukeboxes could short circuit, feathers could… well, feathers were harder. But stools didn't just move themselves across the floor and then move back on command.

  Something was happening. Something impossible. And it was centered, somehow, on her.

  The sarcastic armor, the carefully constructed walls of disbelief, crumbled. Underneath was just raw fear, confusion, and a terrifying, dawning awareness. She wasn't just Casey, the tired waitress with weird eyes. She was… something else. Something that made objects move. Something that attracted cryptic strangers and impossible feathers.

  What now? What the hell was she supposed to do now? Run? Hide? Try to pretend this didn't happen? No, it was too late for that. The stool had moved. And maybe, just maybe, she had moved it back.

  She lifted her head, her unusual eyes scanning the now-mundane diner with a completely new perspective. Everything looked the same, but the meaning had shifted. Sal wasn't just Sal anymore. Barry wasn't just Barry. The diner wasn't just a diner. And she… she wasn't just Casey.

  A decision began to form, cold and clear amid the fear. She couldn't keep running from this. She couldn't keep explaining it away. She had to figure out what was going on. Why her? What did "Almost time" mean? Who was the stranger? What was the deal with the feather, the button, the energy? She needed answers. And sitting here, pouring coffee and pretending nothing was wrong, wasn't going to get her any.

  She stood up, legs still a bit unsteady, and walked deliberately towards the counter stool. She ran a hand over its cool chrome surface. It felt solid, real. Just a stool. But she knew better now. The Blue Moon Diner, her predictable cage, had just become the most unpredictable, and possibly dangerous, place in the world.