CHAPTER 1 — "You're Not Welcome Here."
The crystal chandeliers sparkled like stars above the crowded dining hall.
Waiters in white gloves floated silently between tables carrying wagyu steaks, caviar, and thousand-dollar bottles of wine.
The restaurant was the pride of New York's elite.
Reservations were booked six months in advance.
Celebrities.
Politicians.
Billionaires.
Only the wealthiest people ever crossed its doors.
So when an elderly man wearing faded clothes and worn-out shoes quietly stepped inside, every conversation slowly came to a halt.
His gray jacket was patched at the elbows.
His shoes were cracked from years of walking.
A small paper envelope rested carefully inside his coat pocket.
He looked around the magnificent dining room with tired eyes.
Then smiled.
"So... it hasn't changed much."
No one knew what he meant.
The hostess frowned immediately.
"I'm sorry, sir."
"This restaurant requires proper attire."
The old man nodded politely.
"I understand."
"I only want a table for one."
"I'll pay."
Several nearby guests burst into laughter.
One woman covered her mouth.
"A table?"
"Does he even know the cheapest appetizer costs more than his clothes?"
Her husband smirked.
"Someone probably wandered in from the shelter."
Laughter spread across the room.
The old man ignored every word.
He simply stood there, calm.
Patient.
Waiting.
The hostess crossed her arms.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"I came a very long way."
"I'd appreciate just one meal."
"I'm celebrating."
"What exactly?"
someone sneered from a nearby table.
"Finding enough coins for dinner?"
More laughter.
The old man's smile faded—but only slightly.
He quietly reached into his pocket.
Instead of cash...
...he carefully unfolded an old black-and-white photograph.
It showed a much younger version of himself standing beside the very same building decades earlier.
Except back then...
...the restaurant wasn't luxurious at all.
It was only a tiny family diner.
He gently touched the corner of the photo.
"I promised her..."
"I'd come back."
The hostess sighed impatiently.
"I'm calling security."
Within seconds, two massive guards approached.
One grabbed the old man's shoulder.
"Time to go."
"I can walk."
"No need to touch me."
But the guard shoved him anyway.
The old man stumbled backward.
The photograph slipped from his hand.
It floated gently across the polished marble floor...
...until it stopped beside an expensive pair of Italian leather shoes.
A tall man in a perfectly tailored navy suit had just entered.
The restaurant manager froze.
Every employee instantly straightened their posture.
"The owner is here..."
Someone whispered.
The room fell silent.
The owner bent down.
Picked up the old photograph.
Looked at it.
Then looked slowly at the trembling old man.
His face turned pale.
His hands began to shake.
He whispered only three words.
May you like
"...It can't be."
The entire restaurant stopped breathing.
