I’m a 56-year-old guy who runs a burger joint, the kind of place where people wander in with frozen hands and heavy days. One winter night, a kid walked in alone—and what started as “just another order” turned into something I still think about years later.
I’m 56, and I own this tiny burger joint.
Nothing fancy. Flickering neon sign, string lights in the window, wobbly tables, a menu board I swear I’ll redo every year and never do.
That night started like any other pre-Christmas rush.