During that time, I worked at a convenience store that stayed open twenty-four hours a day.
The store was small.
Too small, maybe.
But it was bright—excessively so.
Not the kind of brightness that makes you feel safe.
Not the kind that feels clean or warm.
It was a white that refused to be ignored.
The lights fell straight down from the ceiling, harsh and direct.
No shadows.
No corners to hide in.
Everything inside the store was fully exposed, every hour of the day.
As if the place itself didn't allow secrets.
You couldn't tell whether it was day or night in there.
The windows didn't help.
The outside was always reduced to reflections—light bouncing back at itself.
Time lost its shape.
All that remained were the numbers on the shift schedule.
Morning.
Evening.
Night.
They meant nothing beyond how long I had to stand.
Along one entire wall stood the refrigerated cases.
Their glass doors reflected the ceiling lights endlessly, multiplying the brightness.
The compressor hummed.
It never stopped.
From my first day on the job, that sound had been there.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
Just constant.
A low, steady vibration that pressed gently against the ears.
Like a thin wire slowly wrapping itself around your head.
After enough time passed, you stopped noticing it.
Not because it disappeared.
But because your brain gave up on resisting it.
I stocked shelves.
Checked expiration dates.
Ran the register.
Counted cash.
Everything followed a fixed order.
Each action had a place.
Each place had a time.
There was comfort in that.
As long as I didn't deviate.
No one asked how old I was.
No one questioned whether I should be working nights.
As long as I stood behind the counter on time,
counted correctly,
handed over the shift without mistakes—
That was enough.
That was all anyone required.
I learned the job quickly.
Not because I was capable.
But because I was afraid.
Afraid of mistakes.
Afraid of drawing attention.
Afraid that if something went wrong, it wouldn't just be about the store.
There was a coworker who worked the same shifts as me.
A few years older.
Quiet, but not cold.
He didn't speak much, but he had a way of knowing when to.
When I'd been standing too long, he'd casually slide a chair closer—never saying anything, never making it obvious.
During rush hour, when the line grew impatient, he'd step forward slightly and tell customers, "Just a moment," before I had to.
His voice was always calm.
Never rushed.
Never irritated.
It felt like he was protecting me—just enough that I noticed, but not enough to embarrass me.
He knew I needed money.
I never told him why.
He never asked.
We both pretended that was normal.
One day, just before shift change, he bent down and pulled something out from beneath the counter.
A stack of papers.
They were clipped neatly together.
No bent corners.
No wrinkles.
They had clearly been sitting there for a while.
"Procedure," he said.
"New schedules. Everyone has to sign."
His tone was casual.
The same tone people use when reminding you to clock in.
I took the papers.
They felt heavier than I expected.
Not in weight.
In presence.
The kind of weight that makes your fingers hesitate.
There were many pages.
Too many.
The text was dense.
Lines packed tightly together, no spacing, no relief.
I flipped through them.
One page.
Then another.
The more I read, the slower I went.
It wasn't that I couldn't understand the words.
I knew every character.
Every term.
But when they were arranged like this, they felt distant.
Cold.
As if the document wasn't written for someone like me.
As if it assumed the reader wouldn't ask questions.
I searched for what mattered.
Numbers.
Deadlines.
Responsibilities.
But they always appeared at the end of paragraphs, buried behind long clauses and formal language.
I looked up.
He was already packing his things.
Movements practiced.
Efficient.
As if this interaction was already finished.
"Don't worry," he said.
"Everyone signed."
He didn't look at me when he said it.
His voice was light.
Almost friendly.
I hesitated.
Not because I sensed danger.
Not because I noticed anything obviously wrong.
Just for a moment—
The familiar vibration in my chest stirred.
The one I had learned to suppress.
It was faint.
Almost polite.
Like it was checking whether I was still listening.
I pressed it down.
Told myself I was tired.
I picked up the pen.
The tip hovered over the paper.
One second.
Then I wrote my name.
Carefully.
Cleanly.
Each stroke steady.
My hand didn't shake.
It didn't feel unfamiliar.
After that, nothing changed.
Shifts stayed the same.
Pay arrived on time.
My coworker spoke to me like always.
The papers disappeared, as if they'd never existed.
I even started to wonder if I'd imagined the unease.
Until one night.
After work.
Not in the store.
On the street.
It was late.
The kind of late where the city feels hollow.
Streetlights lined the road at regular intervals, cutting the pavement into clean squares.
The light was precise.
Orderly.
And completely without warmth.
I walked through one square.
Then another.
But my steps didn't match the rhythm.
It felt like the street had its own tempo.
And I was slightly out of sync.
They stepped out from the darkness.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
They had been there all along.
I just hadn't noticed until now.
Their voices were familiar.
Too familiar.
For a moment, I wondered if I'd seen them before.
They called my name.
Perfectly.
Not as a guess.
As confirmation.
They spoke numbers.
Amounts.
Dates.
Figures that meant nothing to me.
Not because they were complicated.
But because they didn't belong in my world.
Still, I understood one thing.
There was no way I could repay it.
I tried to explain.
Said I was just a part-timer.
Said I'd never borrowed money.
I spoke slowly.
Controlled my volume.
Measured every word.
They laughed.
Not loudly.
But in the quiet night, the sound carried.
It echoed.
Again.
And again.
Like a dull blade scraping against nerves.
Not fatal.
But relentless.
That's when it clicked.
I didn't owe money.
I had been allowed to owe money.
At that moment—
The resonance inside me surged.
Not sound.
Vibration.
It rose from deep within my chest, spreading outward along my bones.
I knew this feeling.
I knew that if it lasted one second longer—
Everything would break.
I lowered my head.
Clenched my teeth.
Forced every sound down my throat.
And then—
The world went quiet.
＿＿＿
[Monitoring Log | R-203]
Target emotional fluctuation: Rapid escalation
Environmental noise index: Abnormal decline
Spatial stability: Deviating
＿＿＿
Sound didn't fade.
It didn't shrink.
It was erased.
The wind stopped.
Laughter froze mid-motion.
Even my breathing felt pinned down by an invisible hand.
I looked up.
The streetlights were still on.
The street was still there.
But everything felt separated by a thin, unseen membrane.
Real.
Yet unreachable.
Their mouths were open.
Expressions frozen.
And for the first time, I truly understood—
How unfamiliar humans look without sound.
The vibration in my chest was gone.
The thing that had haunted me for years—
Wasn't suppressed.
Wasn't calmed.
It was removed.
＿＿＿
[Monitoring Log | R-203]
Resonance source: Missing
Assessment: Abnormal interruption
Recording in progress…
＿＿＿
I stood there.
Unsure whether I should move.
It felt like the world had forgotten me.
Or like it had finally noticed me.
The next instant—
Light stretched.
Folded.
My vision collapsed.
I lost balance.
＿＿＿＿
[Monitoring Log | R-203]
Signal lost
Target status: Unknown
System assessment: Intervention failed
＿＿＿
The street returned to normal.
Lights glowing.
Wind moving again.
There was only one thing missing—
The person
who should have been standing there.