Souvenir [Complete]

One. The Stranger

"Ashton Elliot."

The name seemed to stick out in Luke's mind the first time he heard it. It had an unfamiliar ring to it—something that he'd hadn't noticed before in this small town. Like a call of a familiar voice to an uncharted wild. Luke looked up from his usual maple syrup covered waffle at the call of this strange name, trying to locate its owner.

A man stood up in the corner of the room. He had been blocked before by the heads of people Luke already knew. And they were all turned to the stranger now. As if they had only half-noticed the appearance of the stranger before and were now made hyper aware. Most eyes in the crowded diner were all fixed on him.

If the stranger—this Ashton—noticed he didn't show it on his face. He kept his eyes fixed on the owner of the voice that had called him. His sandy blond hair looked windswept, but not unkempt. His shoulders bore a reddish brown leather jacket, and over one shoulder was a dust colored duffel bag strap, and the accompanying bag clung to the man's lower back

Ashton tugged the heavy bag over his shoulder, and Luke could practically feel the weight of it as it thudded in the cushioned booth. It was heavy.

It took five or six steps to get behind the counter from where Ashton was called and then disappeared with the owner and manager of this hole-in-the-wall diner. A shorter, ruddy, balding man named John.

The door closed between the two and the rest of the public and the restaurant seemed to buzz back to life. He could hear indistinct chatter of people talking about the new guy.

Luke supposed it was news enough, but he didn't really care for one, and had no table-mates to discuss it with. So he instead went back to his reading.

Luke wasn't shy or anything, he had lots of friends. But Michael had an early shift at the grocery store this morning, and well, he wanted some other form of distraction. At this rate he'd finish this thick book by mid afternoon, before work in the evening.

Life was the same day-in and day-out for Luke. Except for Sundays. Sundays were church days. He'd wear his smile candied and red just for the people to tell him how good of a job his daddy did on the sermon, and he'd nod and tell them: "he's been working on it for a while." And then he'd grab a plate of whatever meal had been prepared for them to eat, and he'd go home, or go hang out with Michael.

The same, slow weeks turned into slow years, and eighteen of those formed Luke's life. And that's just how it was expected to be in the close-knit town of Bightwitch. Luke was the lead in the choir. He got a job as a singing instructor on week days and choir lead on Sundays. Both were acquired just after graduation.

It had nothing to do with nepotism. At least not that he was aware of. Luke was modest, but he knew he was talented. In his eyes—and in the eyes of a lot of townsfolk—Luke deserved his spot as the lead.

"You want some more coffee, hun?" Karen, Michael's mom, chirped up breaking Luke away from his book.

"Umm, yes! Thank you," Luke nodded. "And can I get a box for my food, please?"

Luke decided to close his book while he was waiting. The sun was just starting to come up. Casting a light golden hue against the discarded plates and the red tables. And Luke could really see the change of the seasons from winter to spring this time.

A door opened from the corner of the room, the same door Luke had seen the stranger enter before, and now there he was again, nodding at something John told him. They shook hands.

Then John went back to the kitchen. Ashton went back to his bag. Again, he didn't seem to notice the eyes on him, but they were all there. Luke's included.