Emily met her gaze. “Actually, I’m planning a campaign that keeps the history and soul of the diner intact, while drawing in more customers.”
“She has a great idea for the website,” I said. “Cleaner layout. Up-to-date menu. Easy for people to find hours and specials.”
Aunt Ophelia narrowed her eyes. “So everything old gets thrown out?”
“Not at all,” Emily said. “I want to feature you. A whole section of the site with your story, the roots of the diner, and what makes this place matter. The Lighthouse Diner is part of Chrysanthemum Cove. It has a soul. Throwing that away would be a mistake.”
Aunt Ophelia tilted her head.
Emily continued. “And honestly, if we erased all that history, we’d lose your regulars. But if we showcase the history? That’s gold. Even city folks love that. Especially in the fall. Leaf peeping season brings in tons of tourists. We should be ready by then.”
Aunt Ophelia looked at her, quiet for a beat. Then she nodded. “You make very good points.”
She shifted in her seat. “But how do I know you’re not going to leave again? You already left Jason once.”
Emily didn’t look away. “Things are different this time. I thought I knew what I wanted the last time. I thought I had to. But there are things I missed. Things I didn’t even know I missed until I came back. You can change your city. You can chase something shiny. But sometimes… the heart knows where it belongs.”
The table stayed quiet. The clink of forks and the soft murmur of other booths moved around us.
Aunt Ophelia pursed her lips, let out a long exhale, then gave a small nod. Just once.
EMILY
Ifelt a rush of relief as Aunt Ophelia leaned back in the booth, her expression softer than it had been all afternoon.
She believed us. Or at least, she wanted to. That was enough.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s take a walk.”
Jason blinked. “What… like right now?”
Aunt Ophelia stood and grabbed her purse. “No time like the present.”
Jason gave me a sideways look. I gave him one back that said ‘don’t ask questions’, even though my spine had gone rigid.
We followed her out the diner and down the path behind the building, past the compost bins and the blackberry thicket, to the narrow trail that led into the woods. I’d walked here as a kid. It always smelled like wet leaves and pine needles and that quiet, secret dirt that only grew in places where no one had built anything.
The air thickened as the canopy swallowed the light. Aunt Ophelia moved ahead of us, her steps sure on the uneven ground. Jason stayed close to my side.
At a clearing, she stopped and turned around. Her smile had vanished.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
I blinked. “What?”
“This whole little performance,” she said. “The tomatoes. The radishes. The trailer tears. You’re lying.”
Jason stepped forward. “Aunt Ophelia?—”
She raised a hand. “I hate liars.”
Her voice cut the air like a blade. Then she looked at me, eyes sharp and inhuman.
“And liars always pay the price.”
She began to shift.
Bones cracked. Fur pushed through skin. Her jaw lengthened. Her hands curled into claws. Her spine stretched, bent, and snapped into a new shape. In seconds, she towered over us, a massive gray werewolf with cold yellow eyes and teeth like polished stone.
