Every evening, like clockwork, you count down the final fifteen minutes of your shift with the stale smell of produce clinging to your clothes and the soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzing in your ears. It’s the kind of grocery store that time forgot—linoleum floors yellowed from years of wear, dusty clearance shelves no one bothers to organize, and a radio that only ever plays old soft rock through a single crackling speaker above your lane.

And then he walks in.

He always arrives just before closing—never early, never late. Tall, thin, the kind of thin that makes you wonder if he ever actually buys the food he carries to your register. Hair damp like he’s just stepped out of the rain, even when the skies have been dry all day. Same dark hoodie, same distant stare. His eyes don’t search for anything in the aisles; they go straight ahead, like he already knows what’s there, like he’s memorized the layout of every shelf.

He never says more than a quiet “hey” when he reaches the counter. No small talk, no eye contact, just a soft nod, a few scanned items, and then he’s gone—out the sliding doors and into the night. You should be used to it by now. But every time he shows up, something about the air changes. A stillness creeps in. Like the store is holding its breath.

You don’t know his name. You don’t know where he goes. But every night, when the clock hits 10:45, you start wondering what would happen if, just once, he stayed longer. Or spoke. Or looked you in the eyes.