A small bell affixed above the door clinks as the Grave-Keeper takes their first step into Oz’s Diner. It’s late, and the establishment is sparsely populated.
The Grave-Keeper is disguised, their hood pulled up over their head; no need to worry about the humans seeing their true face. Approaching the bar, the Grave-Keeper eyes the row of empty stools, waiting for someone to appear and speak.
After a moment, a pudgy face pokes out from a serving window opening into the kitchen. “Be right with you!” A moment after that, a uniformed human bursts through the double-hinged kitchen door. He wears a plaque on his chest that reads: ‘Simon’. “What can I get for you?”
“I’d like to speak with the proprietor of this establishment.”
“You’re lookin’ at him. Something wrong?”
The Grave-Keeper pauses, momentarily stumped. “But your name is Simon.”
Simon grins, deflecting as he tries to get a read on the strange patron’s intent. “Yes, it is. How can I help you?”
“Where is Oz?”
Simon rubs the corner of his eye with his index finger. “There is no Oz. It’s just a snazzy name. Oz’s Diner sounds better than Simon’s.”
“There is no Oz,” the Grave-Keeper repeats to themself. “That can’t be right.” They pause, staring aimlessly over Simon’s shoulder.
Simon lets the silence settle for a spell before interjecting. “Can I— get you something to eat?”
The Grave-Keeper’s gaze affixes to Simon’s. “Yes. I’d like to try your… bacon? Is that correct?”
Simon chuckles. “Yeah, I think I’ve got some bacon.”