Have you ever heard the microwave in the break room sighing when it runs?
The first time I heard it, I thought it was the turntable bearing wearing out. The sound was muffled inside the cavity, thin, filtered through something, sliding past the humming motor sound.
I didn't even stop what I was doing, prodding at my food with a spoon. Tomato and egg, still steaming. I scooped up a mouthful, instantly frowned.
Bitter. It spread from my tongue to the back of my throat, soaking my entire mouth in bitterness. I spat it back into the container and rinsed twice with the break room's filtered water. The taste wouldn't go away.
I stared at the food—vibrant red tomato and yellow egg, grains of rice separate and distinct. Nothing looked spoiled or burnt. I hesitated two seconds, then dumped the whole container into the trash. Maybe the ketchup went bad, I thought.
The next day I brought lunch again. Sweet and sour ribs, made by my mom, in a glass container with a blue lid. Waited in line, shoved it into the microwave, set it for four minutes.
The microwave hummed to life. Orange light made the ribs' sauce glisten. I leaned against the water cooler scrolling through short videos—about a minute and a half passed.
"Sigh..."
This time I heard it clearly. Not a bearing. A person. A very soft sigh, like someone breathed out through the semi-transparent door right into my food.
The sound exploded beside my ear. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up. I whipped my head toward the microwave. It was still turning, the ribs slowly rotating. Nothing looked wrong.
My finger hovered over the "cancel" button, hesitated. Lunch break was short. Waited in line forever. Reheating would take more time.
Maybe it was my imagination? AC wind? Someone sighing from the next meeting room? I gave myself a dozen excuses. Didn't press it.
Ding. The microwave stopped. I pulled open the door. Hot steam billowed out—sweet and sour scent mixed with something else, I couldn't place it. Picked up a rib, blew on it, bit down.
Still that bitter taste. Worse than yesterday's tomato egg. It completely overwhelmed the sweet and sour, like chewing a bone soaked in yellow bitter root water.
I spat it all into the trash, snapped the lid shut, dumped everything. That bitterness lingered in my mouth all afternoon. Drank two coffees, couldn't get rid of it.
Clockout, ran into Brother Chen by the elevator. Finance department, desk diagonal from mine, early forties, black-framed glasses, quiet type, always brought lunch himself. I hesitated, called him over. "Brother Chen, question."
He pushed his glasses up. "What's up?"
"That microwave in the break room..." I tried to sound casual. "When you reheat food, have you... heard anything weird?"
His finger on the elevator button paused. He turned to look at me, glasses reflecting the hallway lights. I couldn't read his expression. "You heard it?" His voice dropped.
"Like... someone sighing," I said.
He didn't answer. Elevator arrived, doors opened, empty inside. He walked in, I followed. Doors closed, floor numbers started blinking. He stared at them, finally spoke. "Next time you hear it—don't open it. Let it stop on its own."
"Why?"
"You opened it?" He whirled around, that look startled me.
"N-no," I lied instinctively. "Just thought it was creepy."
He relaxed, back to his blank expression. "Just remember. Don't open it." Elevator hit ground floor, he strode out, merged into the evening crowd, never looked back.
I stood by the elevator, mind racing. He heard it too, knew more than me, wasn't telling. That bitterness came back, I smacked my lips, rushed to the subway.
Third day, smarter. Brought a sandwich, no reheating. Ate dry whole wheat bread, watched colleagues line up for that microwave, all normal faces, ate their food fine.
My doubts faded. Maybe it was just my food? Mom used some weird ingredient?
Meeting ran late, past six. Packed up my desk, passed the break room—light on, door half-open. Peeked in. Empty.
Microwave door was ajar, inside empty. Yellow ring on the cavity wall—grease or something. About to leave, spotted something on the floor.
A glass container with a blue lid, sitting right under the microwave, by the wall. Exactly like the one I threw away yesterday.
I froze. Cleaner emptied the trash every afternoon. That container should've been gone hours ago. This one... crouched down, leaned in.
Lid was snapped shut. Through the blue plastic, looked empty, washed clean. But something was off. I lifted the lid. Cold air rushed out, carrying a faint smell—like disinfectant mixed with sandalwood.
At the bottom of the container, words. Dark brown, oily, looked like written with used cooking oil. Sloppy strokes, smelled like rancid grease. Squinted to make them out.
"Don't reheat my food."
I snapped the lid shut, hands shaking. This handwriting, this container—exactly like mine, but I watched mine get thrown away yesterday.
Prank? Brother Chen? Some colleague saw me dump my food, bought a matching container to scare me? I stood up, scanned the break room. Alone.
Sunset outside, office building quiet, no more typing sounds. Held the container—didn't know whether to throw it away or put it back. Ended up setting it on top of the microwave, grabbed my bag, bolted. Heart pounding, felt like running away.
Weekend stayed home, tried not to think about work. But nights, kept hearing sighs by my ear, faint, like through something.
Monday morning, first thing—ran to the break room. That blue-lid container on top of the microwave was gone. Not in the trash either. Stood there staring. Little Zhou from the front desk walked in with a cup.
"Morning, Brother Zhang," she yawned. "Looking for something?"
"Oh, nothing," I nodded at the microwave. "Has anyone reported this thing lately?"
She filled her water cup, leaned against the cooler, thought. "Don't think so. Why? Broken?" She tapped the side. "Been here forever—longer than me.
Heard it broke once, they replaced a part, kept using it." She drank, suddenly remembered. "Hey, when I first started, an old coworker told me don't use it too long. Two-three minutes max. Longer, it gets..."
"Gets what?"
"Doesn't heat through, wastes electricity." She laughed. "Old-timers say that. I get delivery anyway, don't use it." Left with her cup.
Stared at the microwave. Gray exterior, small chip on the top right corner showing rusty metal. Handle polished shiny from countless hands. That thing.
Walked over, pulled the door open. That familiar mix of food smells hit me. I reached in, touched the bottom of the cavity.
Cold. Fine scratches on the turntable, the center spindle loose. Pulled my hand back, wiped it on my pants. Nothing.
Didn't bring lunch, ate noodles out. Came back, Brother Chen was at the break room door reheating food, back to me. Heard the microwave humming, everything normal. He turned, saw me, expression stiffened. "Eaten?"
"Yeah, went out." Glanced past him, his container was inside—old white enamel mug, lid not fully sealed, steam escaping from the gap. "Brother Chen, you use this thing every day?"
"Used to it." Turned back, stared at the countdown. "Three minutes, enough."
"Brother Chen," I lowered my voice. "How many times have you heard that sigh?"
His shoulders tensed. Ding—time up. He yanked the door open, grabbed the mug, juggled it twice because it was hot.
"Don't talk about it," he hissed, barely audible. "If you hear it—pretend you don't.
Don't open. Don't ask. Don't tell anyone else." Carried his food back to his desk, didn't even grab chopsticks. Stood there, watched him walk away, questions piling up. He knew something, but he was scared.
Afternoon couldn't focus. Searched "microwave sigh" and "office haunted" online, pages of made-up stories, nothing matched. Before clockout, wandered to the front desk, Zhou was packing up.
"Zhou, one more question." Leaned on the counter.
"Why so curious today, Brother Zhang?" She smiled, zipped her bag.
"That old coworker who told you about the microwave—who was it? Still here?"
She thought. "Left long ago. I've been here two years, never met them. What was their name? Liu? Li? Guy, talking nonsense.
Heard he retired early for health reasons." Slung her bag over her shoulder. "Why do you ask?"
"No, just wondering. See you."
"Bye."
Back to my desk, packed up. Office almost empty, just two or three working late, keyboards clicking sparsely. Grabbed my bag, walked to the elevator, passed the break room.
Door closed, light off, but the microwave's power indicator glowed a tiny green light in the dim hallway—like an eye.
Walked faster.
That night I couldn't sleep. Tossed and turned, replaying that sigh, that blue container, Brother Chen's "don't open it."
Started wondering if I was losing it. Too much stress? Auditory hallucinations? Took a melatonin, barely fell asleep. Dreamed.
Dreamed I was working late, floor empty except me. Hungry, took my container from the fridge, shoved it into the microwave.
Turned on. Then the sigh came—a hundred times clearer than real life, right behind my ear, warm breath on my neck.
Tried to run, couldn't move. Watched the microwave ding by itself, door popped open a crack. My container's lid flipped open, chopsticks sticking out of the food.
Chopsticks moved by themselves, picked up a mouthful of food, held it out the door—like feeding someone. Leaned back as far as I could, chair tipped, fell, woke up. Covered in sweat.
Showed up to work with dark circles. Decided—today I'd find out. Lunch break, waited until everyone left, slipped into the break room. Locked the door from inside.
Took out what I prepared: an empty container, clear plastic, cheap one. Turned on the tap, filled it with about an inch of water. Shoved it into the microwave, set it for two minutes.
"Hum"
Microwave started turning. Pressed against the door, looked through the semi-transparent glass. Water sloshing, nothing happening. Minute passed. Heard my own heart beating louder than the motor. Minute thirty.
"Sigh"
There it was. Clear, from inside the microwave cavity, like the oven itself was breathing.
This time, pressed right against the door, I could hear the exhaustion in it—resignation, like someone working midnight shift finally couldn't take it anymore, squeezing out that last breath from deep in their chest.
My finger on the "cancel" button, shaking. Brother Chen's words echoed: "Don't open it. Let it stop on its own." But I needed to know. Too curious, too frustrated from two days of being scared. Made a decision I'd regret.
Pressed "cancel."
"Click"—microwave stopped. Turntable froze instantly. Took a deep breath, grabbed the handle, pulled open the door.
White steam billowed out. No smell. My clear container inside, water still sloshing. Pulled it out, water was clear, nothing written. Disappointed, but relieved.
About to dump the water, noticed something on the glass turntable. Condensation.
Thin layer of fog on the turntable, a faint mark in the middle—like someone dragged a finger through it. I breathed on it, squinted. A letter. Sloppy, capitalized. L.
L? Liu? Li? Or... something else? Stared at that L, when someone knocked on the break room door. Rapid, urgent.
"Who's in there? Why locked?"
Brother Chen's voice. Quickly dumped the water in the sink, opened the door.
He stood there, face pale. Saw the empty container in my hand, then looked at the turntable still steaming. Grabbed my arm, pulled me out, slammed the door shut behind us.
"You reheated it?" His voice was tight, almost a growl.
"Yeah," I admitted.
"Opened it?"
"Opened it."
He closed his eyes, opened them again—full of regret. "Done for," he said. "You're done for."
"Brother Chen, what's going on? Who's sighing? What does L mean?" I followed him.
He didn't answer, dragged me to the fire stairwell. Empty there. Door closed behind us, just us and the dim motion-sensor light.
He leaned against the wall, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, drew deep. The tip glowed bright in the dark.
"That was Old Liu," he exhaled, voice rough. "Told you about him? Finance department, my old mentor. Trained me when I started."
"He... died. Right on this floor. Right in this break room." Another drag. "Three years ago. Working late, last one left.
Brought his own lunch, reheated it in that microwave, heart attack. Collapsed right there. Cleaner found him next morning. Cold already.
His food was still in the microwave, turning. Turned all night. The program somehow got stuck, wouldn't stop by itself. Ran empty for twelve hours."
My back pressed against the cold wall, scalp tingling. "That sigh..."
"Him." Brother Chen crushed the cigarette. "After he died, that microwave started acting up. Everyone hears sighs inside. That's him.
His container—after the office cleaned out his things, no one wanted it, threw it away. But sometimes... sometimes it shows up in the break room on its own." Glanced at me. "You saw it too?"
Thought of that blue container, nodded.
"That's his," Brother Chen said. "He's looking for his food. He died hungry. That food turned all night, burnt, couldn't eat it. Now whoever uses that microwave, heats it too long—he thinks it's his food.
He sighs. If you reheat with the door open, or open it mid-cycle, he breathes that sigh into your food. That bitter taste—right?"
That bitterness came back to my mouth again. "So yesterday, the words on the container..."
"He left them for you. Told you not to reheat his food." Brother Chen sighed. "You saw the words—means he remembers you. You're on his radar now. Best thing is—stop reheating food, don't work late, leave right on time. Maybe he'll forget after a while."
"What about the L?" I asked.
He froze. "What L?"
"I saw it on the turntable. Written in condensation."
His face went white under the stairwell light. Lips moved. "Old Liu's surname is Liu. L."
"I know. I mean—why write it for me? To tell me his name?"
Long silence. The motion light went out. Heard him swallow in the dark. Light came back—he stomped his foot.
"He's not surnamed Liu," Brother Chen's voice was dry. "Old Liu... surnamed Li. Li Jianguo. We called him Old Liu." That blue container—his wife bought it for him. Blue lid. The sigh? That's him. But that L... wasn't from him."
My brain exploded. "Then who—"
Brother Chen didn't answer. Turned, pushed open the fire door. Hall light streamed in, stretched his shadow long on the floor. Walked out two steps, looked back. That look—what I later understood was fear.
"That microwave broke once before he died," his voice floated back. "A woman used it one night working late too.
Didn't know how to use it well, set it too long. The container caught fire. She put it out, fine, but terrified. Quit a few days later. What was her surname... Liu, I think."
He was gone. I stood in the dark stairwell, motion light went out again. So quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. Stood there until my legs went numb.
Through the fire door window, the microwave's power indicator glowed in the break room.
Like an eye.
Like that L written in condensation, stroke by stroke, dead center on the turntable.
Who's sighing?
Who's writing?
Whose blue-lid container is that?
Didn't dare think about it anymore. Pushed open the door, hallway empty. Ran back to my desk, grabbed my bag, bolted for the elevator. Alone in the elevator, looked at my face in the metal door—noticed my mouth was bitter. Licked it.
That taste was back again.
I don't know when.