There was a small diner in the heart of my old town. Although it was closed on Mondays, it was never truly empty. On those quiet evenings, my family and I would gather inside, welcomed like kin by the owners. The tables didn't just hold dinner; they held stories. The room would hum with talk of shadows that moved on their own, strange knocks at the door in the middle of the night, inexplicable noises, and age-old legends from the region. Those stories lingered somewhere between memory and imagination and I have wrote several short stories, and finally a novel.