The Blue Ridge Diner looked exactly as it had for the past fifty years, a perfect time capsule of Americana. Red vinyl booths, cracked in the familiar places where generations had slid in and out. A long, chrome-edged counter with spinning stools that squeaked in protest. A jukebox in the corner, a magnificent Wurlitzer that still played actual 45-rpm records, and a menu that hadn’t changed a single item since 1978.