Ghosts at East End Cafe

The East End café had stood empty for years, its windows clouded with the memories of stale cigarette smoke and long-lost conversations. A flickering neon sign buzzed faintly overhead—OPEN—yet no living person ever ventured inside. 

But tonight, the spirits convened.

Buddy Holly occupied a corner booth, his glasses slipping down his nose as he fiddled with his espresso that would never be refilled. John Lennon wandered in next, hands stuffed into the pockets of a faded military jacket, whistling a melody that he hadn’t composed as yet. At the counter, Allen Ginsberg tapped his fingers against the chipped formica, muttering fragments of a forgotten poem, while Jack Kerouac reclined in his chair, arms crossed, gazing at the city lights flickering beyond the grimy windows.

“Well, gentlemen,” Lennon remarked, sliding into the booth across from Buddy. “The world’s crazier than when we left, isn’t it?”

“Always has had its madness,” Ginsberg replied, scratching his beard. “But it’s a different kind of chaos now. Quicker. Noisier. Less heart, more clamour.”

Kerouac laughed, tipping back an unseen drink. “And here we thought the Beat Generation was wild. Man, we were just a whisper compared to the roar of today.”

Buddy adjusted his glasses, shaking his head. “I’m not so sure, guys. I still hear love songs every now and then. Kids still fall for one another, right?”

Lennon grinned. “Oh, they fall for sure. But they tumble out just as fast. Love has a shorter lifespan now. Disposable, like everything else.”

Ginsberg leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Love ain’t dead, John. It’s just hiding beneath a sea of screens, buried under all this connectivity that somehow makes folks lonelier than ever.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Sometimes I worry about all the words getting lost. All the poetry that goes unwritten because everyone’s too busy swiping.”

Kerouac exhaled, as if he could still taste whiskey in a throat he no longer possessed. “What happened to the journey, man? The open road? Now it’s all about getting to the destination. Click. Arrive. Done. Nobody gets lost anymore. And if they do, they just ask their phone how to find their way back. There’s no magic left.” 

Lennon smirked and shook his head at Jack’s statement. “And now, on top of it all, natural stupidity is being challenged by artificial intelligence—imagine that.”

A moment of silence settled over them. Outside, the city throbbed—cars honking, sirens blaring, a million hurried footsteps rushing nowhere in particular.

Buddy, ever the optimist, tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “Yeah, but music’s still here, isn’t it? Maybe it’s changed, but there’s still some kid out there with a cheap guitar, crooning about a broken heart. That’s gotta mean something.”

Lennon smiled. “Yeah, Buddy. It means we haven’t completely vanished yet.”

Ginsberg lifted an imaginary glass. “To the poets, the lovers, the dreamers. May they never disappear entirely.”

Kerouac raised his empty hands in a toast. “And to the journey. May someone still find it worth the wander.”

They sat in quiet contemplation for a while, listening to the city’s pulse, as if awaiting a sign that something of their world still remained in this one. And just for a fleeting moment—somewhere in the distance, a lone guitar strummed, a voice hummed an old love song, and the ghosts looked at each and smiled. 

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