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Lana had worked the closing shift at the Muso and Frank Grill for almost a year, and although

Hollywood's oldest restaurant brimmed with

stories, she never believed them. Ghosts? Please. If anything haunted the place, it was the lingering

scent of cigar smoke from the dinner crowd. Lana was busy cleaning the restaurant. Most of the

staff had clocked out, leaving just her to lock up while the

manager was in the office, counting the night's hall. The restaurant was still. The only noise was the

occasional creek from the wooden floor and the muffled sound of Hollywood Boulevard outside.

She moved through the dining room, straightening chairs and picking up stray napkins when something caught her eye.

In one of the far booths, a bowler hat stuck out.

Someone was sitting there.

Lana froze.

No one was supposed to be here.

She distinctly remembered locking the front doors after the last patron and left. Heart

pounding, but somewhat annoyed, she called out, sir, we're closed. You're not supposed to be here.

No answer. With each step closer, the details of the figure became more clear. A man sat in the booth,

his back, impossibly straight, his hands resting on his cane.

The bowler hat sat neatly atop a head with dark black hair.

His profile struck her as eerily familiar, a thin mustache, distinct eyes, and a suit

that seemed to belong to another era.

Excuse me, Lana said, her voice cracking. The man turned to face her, and her breathing stopped.

...