It was two in the morning, the hour when even the bravest samurai retires to his bedroll, yet here, a fortress of light beckoned me from the darkness. Every castle I have ever known has fallen. Fire, siege, taxes. Eight hundred years of my family learning one lesson: nothing stays open forever. This house has never closed. Not for storms. Not for holidays. Not for the hour when even the moon looks tired. I asked the waitress when they lock the doors. "We don't have locks, hon." No locks. I own walls, moats, and a sword older than this country, and I have never once said anything that powerful. Inside, a cook was scraping the grill at 2 a.m. with the calm of a man guarding something. I asked if he was the night watch. "I'm Darnell." A trucker two stools down raised his coffee. "Place stayed open during the hurricane," he said. "FEMA's got a whole index about it." An index. The government of this nation measures disasters by whether THIS HOUSE is still standing. In Japan, we measured a clan's strength by its castle. Same thing. Theirs serves waffles. I ordered. I ate. I confess what happened next. I did not want to leave. The night outside was large. The booth was warm. I am a grown warrior, and I sat in a yellow fortress at 3 a.m. feeling protected by hash browns. A castle does not promise to stand forever. It simply leaves the lights on. I drive past at night now. Just to check. The lights are always on. Sentries of the griddle — I see you. Hold the line.