The Night Shift at the Convenience Store
A man buys a bottle of water at 2:13 every night and never drinks it. The clerk learns he is only waiting by the window, for someone who used to stand there.
Lin Wan works the night shift, midnight to eight.
The convenience store sits on a corner where two roads meet. Crowded by day, empty by night. The surveillance camera's red light blinks like an eye that never sleeps.
There is a man who pushes the door open at 2:13 every night, sharp. Thin, tall, a grey jacket. He buys a bottle of water, scans it, pays, then never twists the cap — just carries it, stands by the window shelf, and watches the road. At 2:47 he leaves; the bell goes ding-dong and he is gone.
She counted. Thirty-four nights straight, not one missed.
Around the fortieth night, Lin Wan could not help herself. While he stood there she handed over a packet of tissues. “Mister, you buy water every day and never drink it. Seems a waste, left there like that.”
The man paused, then smiled, his voice very soft. “I'm waiting for someone. There used to be a girl on night shift here, friends with my wife. They'd rest together. Then she quit. I can't sleep, so I come sit a while. Watch this window. Same as back then.”
Lin Wan asked no more. After that, stocking shelves at night, she'd glance up now and then and there he'd be, water in hand, like holding a sentence left unfinished.
One stormy night, 2:13 came and he did not. 2:47, still nothing. Lin Wan stared at the empty shelf and suddenly noticed — by the window, a sealed bottle of water had appeared, beaded with cold drops. She had not sold it.
She thought about it, left it there. From then on that slot kept a place, for a bottle no one bought.