The Janitor Is Definitely A Time Traveler From The Future
The hum of the office at 2:00 AM is a specific kind of sound. It is a mixture of the buzzing overhead fluorescent lights, the distant rattle of the ventilation system, and the heavy silence that sits on the empty cubicles. My head was throbbing, a dull ache pulsing behind my eyes from staring at spreadsheets for six hours straight. I was working on a quarterly report that nobody would probably read, but my boss needed it on his desk by morning. The air in the office usually felt stale, recycled and dry, but tonight it smelled fresh. A sharp, stinging scent of chemical floor wax cut through the monotony. I knew it was Dave. Dave had been our night janitor for as long as I had worked here, though I could never put a finger on how long that actually was. He was an older man, stooped slightly, with skin like crumpled parchment and eyes that looked like they had seen every corner of the world and found them all wanting. He never talked much. He just pushed his grey plastic mop bucket along the carpet, a rhythmic, wet squeak that defined the late-night hours. Tonight, he moved with the same slow, deliberate pace as always. He pushed his cart past my desk, not even glancing at me, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance. A moment later, I heard the faint clatter of a newspaper being placed on the communal table in the breakroom. It was a ritual. every week, Dave left a paper there. I usually ignored it, but tonight, the silence felt heavy and the report felt impossible to finish. I stood up, stretching my stiff back, and walked toward the breakroom to grab some lukewarm coffee. I sat down and looked at the paper. It was called The Daily Chronos. I frowned, flipping it over. It was definitely a physical paper, the ink still slightly damp, the paper feeling thicker and crisper than a normal daily. Then I saw the date. It was dated for soon. I let out a dry, tired laugh, thinking it was a prank. Maybe some college kid from the marketing team had come in late to mess with me. But the headline caught my eye. It detailed a massive, catastrophic stock market crash happening regularly. The level of detail was jarring. It listed specific firm names, percentage drops, and even a quote from a frantic financial analyst. I set the paper down, shaking my head. It was a good prank, I told myself. A bit elaborate, but funny. I went back to my desk, finished the report, and eventually drove home as the sun was just starting to bleed over the horizon. I didn't think about it again until the next afternoon. I was scrolling through my phone while eating lunch when a notification popped up. A breaking news alert. A massive, unforeseen stock market crash had just begun. The numbers on the screen were exactly what I had read in that paper. The same firms, the same percentages, the same chaotic collapse. My stomach dropped. I sat in the middle of the crowded cafeteria, the noise of my coworkers laughing and talking feeling a thousand miles away. I felt cold. My hands were trembling as I gripped my phone, realizing I had read the news before it happened. The rest of the day was a blur. I couldn't focus. All I could think about was the janitor. By the time 2:00 AM rolled around again, I was already sitting in the breakroom, waiting. When the familiar smell of floor wax drifted into the room, my heart started hammering against my ribs. Dave walked in. He didn't look surprised to see me. He was pushing his mop bucket and whistling a song. It was a strange, haunting melody, full of minor chords and soaring, complex transitions that felt ancient and futuristic all at once. It sounded like something played on an instrument I couldn't name. He began mopping near the doorway. I stood up, my legs feeling like lead. I walked over to him, feeling incredibly small. Dave, I said, my voice cracking slightly. I saw the paper. The one you left last week. He didn't stop moving. The mop rhythm continued, steady and unbothered. I told him about the crash, about how the news confirmed exactly what I read. I asked him how he did it. How did he know? Dave stopped. He slowly let go of the mop handle and turned to look at me. The fluorescent lights seemed to dim, or maybe my eyes were just failing me. He didn't look like a janitor anymore. He looked like someone who had walked through fire. His eyes were tired, yes, but they were filled with a profound, terrifying knowledge. Don't worry about how I know, he said. His voice was gravelly and quiet, but it carried a weight that made me want to step back. Sell your stocks. Buy gold. Keep your head down. He stared right through me, and for a split second, I felt like I was being dismantled, my entire life being laid out on a table for him to inspect. I wanted to ask him if he was from the future, if he was a traveler, if he could stop other things from happening. But the words died in my throat. He just looked at me with such pity that I felt ashamed. Don't ask questions you aren't ready to hear the answers to, he whispered. Then he picked up his mop, turned around, and began whistling that same song again. He walked toward the elevator, the heavy steel doors sliding open with a groan. He stepped inside and was gone. I stood in the breakroom for a long time, the silence returning to the office, heavier than ever. Since that night, everything feels wrong. I check the breakroom table every single day, praying for another paper but terrified of what I might find. My coworkers tell me I look haggard. They ask if I am getting enough sleep. I just nod and walk away, unable to explain that I am living in a world that might not be real. I followed his advice. I sold everything. I bought gold. I keep my head down, just like he said. But I am terrified. I see the world through a different lens now. I watch the janitor whenever he is in the building, wondering if he has seen the end of this place, or if he is just keeping the floors clean while the world unravels. I know I should quit, that I should walk out the front door and never come back. But I am too scared. I am scared that if I leave, I will lose my connection to the only person who knows what is coming next. I feel like a pawn in a game I don't understand, waiting for the soon, waiting for the next paper, waiting for the future to finish arriving.