It's the summer of 2001, and I'm working the overnight shift at a diner in a small Ohio town called Prospect. A man in a brown coat comes in every night at 2 AM, orders black coffee, and sits in the same booth. He never leaves a tip, but he always says 'thank you' in a voice that sounds like gravel wrapped in a memory. One night, I follow him out. The street where he turns doesn't exist on any map anymore. Prospect Street is paved with the stones we don't remember stepping on. This is a story about the roads we take when we're not looking, and the people who wait at the end of them.

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