Falling Awake

The fluorescent hum of YoruMart's ceiling lights buzzed faintly above, casting a ghostly glow over rows of overstocked shelves and discount bins.

At this hour, just shy of midnight, the world felt like it was holding its breath, the pulse of human need slowing to a gentle trickle.

The customers were few, their footsteps soft as whispers, their eyes heavy with fatigue.

Billy was back at the register, scanning barcodes with a kind of muscle memory that had long overshadowed his presence.

He barely registered the items anymore, noodles, soy broth packs, sanitation wipes, a dented box of biscuits.

It was a dance he'd memorized so well he could do it in his sleep.

But tonight? That rhythm faltered.

After the last customer slipped out into the night, he slumped back in the plastic chair near the breakroom, staring blankly at his old, scratched-up phone screen.