During the school year, I take my oldest son to Waffle House before school every Friday. It’s glorious.
It was two in the morning, the hour when even the bravest samurai retires to his bedroll, yet here, a fortress of light beckoned me from the darkness.
Every castle I have ever known has fallen. Fire, siege, taxes. Eight hundred years of my family learning one lesson: nothing stays open forever.
This house has never closed.
Not for storms. Not for holidays. Not for the hour when even the moon looks tired. I asked the waitress when they lock the doors.
"We don't have locks, hon."
No locks. I own walls, moats, and a sword older than this country, and I have never once said anything that powerful.
Inside, a cook was scraping the grill at 2 a.m. with the calm of a man guarding something. I asked if he was the night watch.
"I'm Darnell."
A trucker two stools down raised his coffee. "Place stayed open during the hurricane," he said. "FEMA's got a whole index about it."
An index. The government of this nation measures disasters by whether THIS HOUSE is still standing. In Japan, we measured a clan's strength by its castle. Same thing. Theirs serves waffles.
I ordered. I ate. I confess what happened next.
I did not want to leave. The night outside was large. The booth was warm. I am a grown warrior, and I sat in a yellow fortress at 3 a.m. feeling protected by hash browns.
A castle does not promise to stand forever. It simply leaves the lights on.
I drive past at night now. Just to check. The lights are always on.
Sentries of the griddle — I see you. Hold the line.