The Night That Didn't End
I work at a server center in an underground room without any windows. It is the kind of place that is designed for efficiency and silence. You do not hear the outside world down there, just the constant, low hum of the massive server racks cooling themselves. The air always feels cold, filtered, and metallic. On the wall, there is a standard digital clock with bright red numbers. I never paid much attention to it until three weeks ago. That night, I was sitting at my desk, finishing up some log reports, when I realized the seconds were not ticking by. Those bright red numbers stopped moving. It was 3:17 AM. I thought it was just a glitch or a bad connection, so I stared at it, waiting for the 3:18. A minute passed. Then five. Then ten. The numbers stayed fixed at 3:17. I figured the batteries had finally died or the internal power supply was failing. I stood up, walked over to the wall, and took the clock down. I popped the back cover off and pulled the batteries out. That was when my heart skipped a beat. The clock stayed on. The light kept blinking, a steady, pulsing red glow that looked almost organic. My skin crawled as I realized there was no power source connected to it anymore. I looked down at my wrist to check my watch, but the hands were spinning backward very fast, like they were trying to unwind time itself. I fumbled for my phone in my pocket. The screen was completely black, even though I knew I had charged it to a hundred percent just a few hours earlier. I pressed the power button, held it down, and tapped the screen, but it was just a dead, glass mirror. I walked to the lobby, moving quickly now. The hallway felt longer than usual. When I reached the lobby, I could not see outside. Usually, the glass doors show the parking lot, but there was just total, suffocating darkness. It looked like the world outside had been painted over with black ink. I tried to open the front doors, but they were stuck shut. They felt like they had been welded into the frame. I shook the handles until my hands ached, but the building would not budge. Panic started to set in, a cold, sharp feeling in my chest. I went back to the room and checked the computers, hoping to find an error message or a system alert. Every single monitor said the same thing in crisp white letters: Waiting for further input. I have been stuck here for what feels like months. I am never hungry, tired, or thirsty. My body does not seem to recognize the passage of time. I do not need to sleep, and I do not need to eat. I am just trapped at 3:17 AM. I have walked the length of every hallway, checked every maintenance hatch, and tried every single exit in the building. Every path brings me back to the same room, like the building is folding in on itself. I have written thousands of notes on the walls using a black marker I found on a desk. I write the same warning over and over: Turn back. Do not come here. I hope someone finds these notes, even though I know deep down that no one is coming. Sometimes I hear strange voices outside the door. They sound muffled, like someone talking from deep underwater, or perhaps through a very thick wall of concrete. I used to call out to them, begging for help, but now I stay quiet. I do not try to open the door anymore. It does not matter what is on the other side. I just sit and watch the clock, wondering if this is forever. The silence is the worst part. It is not a peaceful silence; it is a heavy, hungry kind of quiet that seems to push against your ears. I miss the sound of traffic. I miss the feeling of the sun on my face. I miss the uncertainty of tomorrow. Here, there is no tomorrow. There is only 3:17 AM, forever blinking in red. If you ever work a shift that is too quiet, check the clock. Pay attention to the pulse of the seconds. If the time never changes, do not try to leave. Do not struggle. Do not try to open the doors or scream for help. Just find a corner, sit down, close your eyes, and hope that time finds you again, because once you realize you are stuck, the only thing you have left is your sanity. I am still here, waiting, watching the numbers that never change. I am tired of waiting, but I have no other choice. If you are reading this, stay where you are. Do not let the shift swallow you whole.