Inside My Head (Silent Moment Series: Book 6)

Chapter 29

 Monty, engrossed in his task, grunted in response, his focus unyielding. "Almost got it," he muttered, his fingers working deftly as he maneuvered his tool with precision into the stubborn lock.

In that charged moment, as if responding to our collective resolve, the keypad's light abruptly shifted from a glaring red to a welcoming green. "Yes!" I exclaimed, a surge of triumph washing over me. The sound of the unlocking mechanism was like music, heralding a small yet significant victory in our daunting quest.

As Monty pushed the door open, a blinding light burst forth, momentarily engulfing us in its brilliance. We shielded our eyes, stepping through the threshold with a mix of caution and curiosity. As my eyes adjusted to the light, the scene that unfolded before us was startlingly out of place, almost surreal. We found ourselves in a diner, its ambiance starkly different from where we had just been. It was like stepping into a page from a storybook. The diner was adorned with festive decorations, signaling some kind of holiday celebration. Strings of colorful lights twinkled from the corners of the room, and cheerful garlands were draped across the countertop. The smell of coffee and baked goods lingered in the air, a warm and inviting contrast to the tension we had just left behind. I stood there, momentarily disoriented, as I took in this unexpected setting. The quaint charm of the diner, with its retro booths and shiny chrome accents, felt like a world apart from the grim reality we had been entrenched in.

"Earth before the bombs," I gasped, the realization hitting me like a wave. The diner, with its timeless charm, was a stark reminder of a world that no longer existed—a world before chaos and destruction had reshaped everything we knew.

Monty's voice broke through my reverie. "Hey! Check this out," he called, leading me to the counter. Lying there was a newspaper, its front page dominated by a photo of Diyoza, her face a symbol of a bygone era. "Nice place," Monty remarked, a hint of irony in his voice as he scanned the quaint surroundings.

Gazing around, a perplexing thought struck me. "Why would he keep this memory locked away?" I wondered aloud, my mind racing with possibilities. The diner, this slice of a lost past, seemed an odd choice for such deliberate concealment.

Monty, ever the pragmatist, shifted focus. "More importantly, how do we gain control from here?" he countered. His eyes scanned the room, searching for clues, his mind already strategizing our next move in this strange, anachronistic setting.

As I scanned the diner, my gaze landed on a familiar figure. There he was—Joseph, unmistakable even in this incongruous setting, seated in a booth across the room. He wasn't alone; someone was with him, their back to us, engaged in what appeared to be a deep conversation. With a silent nod to Monty, we made our way across the diner's checkerboard floor, our steps quiet but purposeful. The ambient sounds of the diner—soft music playing in the background, the faint clink of cutlery—seemed to fade into the background as we approached. We chose a table nearby, strategically positioned for an unobtrusive view. Sitting down, we became silent observers, ready to watch this memory unfold, to uncover the secrets it held. The scene before us was like a window into the past, offering a glimpse of Joseph in a context far removed from the man we knew in the present. As we sat there, the air seemed charged with an unspoken tension, a mix of anticipation and apprehension about what we were about to witness in this carefully preserved fragment of a world long gone.

"Ugh, I swear I'm enrolling in Hanlen's class next semester," Joseph groaned, a hint of frustration in his voice. "I just can't deal with Silvestri anymore. His lectures are unbearable."

The woman opposite him raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Does that mean you're dropping your mysterious family project?" she asked, her tone laced with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.