9:00 p.m.
The office was dead quiet except for the hum of computers and the occasional cough echoing down the rows of cubicles. I rubbed my eyes, fighting the urge to slam my forehead against the keyboard.
The clock read 9:03.
Yep, time to go home.
"Kieran Dalsen. In my office right now."
My name, flat and cold, cut through that silence.
I knew the impending doom.
I raised my head above the computer screen to see the devil, my boss standing by his cabin door.
Arms folded, suit pressed to perfection, his face as sharp as the glass windows behind him. No emotion, no kindness, just a man carved from deadlines and quarterly reports.
I felt my stomach sink. What did I do this time? Forgot the stock report? Left HornPub open on the company Wi-Fi? Or worse—did he figure out I only drink coffee here to save ten bucks at BarStucks?
The walk to his cabin felt like a death march. Each step heavier than the last, disappointment gnawing at me with every click of my shoes.
Inside, he didn't even look up from the papers. His pen scratched once, then paused.
"Your one-week leave is approved," he said. A brief silence followed, heavy enough to press on my chest. Then, without so much as a glance my way:
"Your performance remains poor. If you care about your job, I suggest you consider spending your nights on overtime instead of wasting them on a trip. Otherwise…"
His pen scratched again.
"I can't promise this company will still need you when you return."
That wasn't a warning or goodwill.
It was a message.
I am going to be fired.
I walked out bummed, my chest tight. Across the office, another employee was still working overtime, typing furiously like his soul was bound to the keyboard. For a second, I wondered if that was my future—slow death by spreadsheets. I almost preferred that over being jobless.
On the ride back home, the subway was its usual mix of strangers living lives that looked nothing like mine: an old man snoring with his mouth open, a couple whispering into each other's ears, a kid blasting music no one wanted to hear. Everyone belonged somewhere.
And me?
I stared at my reflection in the smudged window and whispered, "I'm just another shadow passing through."
The train lurched to my stop.
The walk home was gloomy but calm, the kind of peace that comes only from the night air. Streetlights flickered against the cracked pavement, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. Soon, they came to a halt as I stood in front of—an about to be run down building—the apartment I lived in.
I climbed the stairs slowly, my hand brushing against the concrete wall as I went. The surface was cold and rough, stained dark by years of rain that never quite washed away. Each step creaked beneath my weight, the sound echoing up the narrow stairwell as if the building itself was complaining about being used.
When I reached my apartment and pushed the door open, nothing surprised me.
The place wasn't grand—never had been. I turned on the lights, my eyes moving over the cramped kitchenette shoved into the corner, the old counter warped from water damage. Beyond it sat the bedroom, small and barely separated, more an idea of privacy than the real thing.
I glanced up instinctively at the ceiling. A faint stain marked where the roof leaked whenever it rained, and a bucket still sat beneath it, waiting out of habit more than hope. The walls were thin—I was reminded of that immediately as raised voices bled through from the neighbouring apartment, another argument carried on with the enthusiasm of a sport rather than a necessity.
I closed the door behind me, listening as the noise settled into a familiar background hum.
The fridge hummed in the corner, a sound I'd stopped noticing years ago. Cupboards sagged with instant noodles, half-empty cereal boxes, and coffee sachets I'd "borrowed" from the office pantry. The counter was a battlefield—burn scars from pans I'd left unattended, grease stains that no amount of scrubbing seemed to erase.
I kicked off my shoes, sighed, and dropped onto the couch. Yesterday's empty cup of noodles still sat there, the broth long since seeped into the fabric, leaving a permanent stain.
With more effort than I cared to give, I peeled myself up, tossed my shirt and trousers into the laundry heap, and shuffled back to the table. Dinner was another cup of noodles, water boiled not on a stove but balanced precariously atop the overheating fridge. Steam curled upward, filling the small space with the faint smell of plastic and salt.
After I was done with my gourmet meal, I headed to my bedroom. The fatigue from working all those hours was finally catching up to me.
The bedroom welcomed me with a mattress shoved against the wall, its sheets a mismatched mess of grays and faded blues. I laid there scrolling through my phone.
Dogs chasing their tails. Influencers selling miracle diets. People living lives shinier than mine. I kept scrolling until my eyes burned.
The phone buzzed. Dante.
"Trip's set!" his voice boomed through the speaker. "You got your bag ready?"
"Not yet."
"Well, get moving, Kieran! The mountain waits for no man. Weather looks perfect. Trails are open. It's gonna be legendary."
We talked about the plan: meet at the bus stop, the trek's starting point, and the fact that Dante somehow convinced a few others to tag along. His enthusiasm was contagious, even if I wouldn't admit it. For once, the gray week ahead didn't feel entirely lifeless.
When the call ended, I set my phone aside. The room fell into silence.
A strange silence.
Did my neighbours finally reached on a conclusion of their argument? Did the fridge finally take its last breath? Even better, am I dead?
Then—creak.
A faint noise, like a floorboard shifting. A scratching sound on the dusted window I always kept close. It soon followed a tapping sound.
I sat up, ears straining.
Nothing.
I laid back down, pulling the blanket higher. The sleep was indeed much needed.
Outside the window, where the curtains swayed gently, a shadow stretched across the glass. It lingered, patient, silent. Watching.
I never saw it.