Brandon hadn't planned on working the midnight shift, not at first.
His days had kept their shape—a clean routine: wake, coffee, study, shift as a system security analyst, home before the city's darker shades showed themselves. But recently, as outages and late-night incidents ticked upward, supervisors started requesting volunteers for overnight monitoring. Brandon was one of the few who actually caught and resolved most of the trickier problems, so when the invitation came—five dollars extra for each midnight start—he agreed.
Now, every other week, he'd clock in just before midnight, lit only by security badge lights and vending machine halos, stepping into a world that felt less like work and more like a test.
On these shifts, everything was different. The office at 2:37 a.m. wasn't just quiet—it was the kind of hush that made fluorescent lights seem loud. Each sound—air conditioner sigh, monitor whine—became a pulse in the stillness. Sometimes, the only other person in the building was Calvin, the graveyard desk guy, who'd nod at Brandon before locking himself into a podcast and a web of spreadsheets.
Brandon's night began as usual: security logs scrolling, intrusion triggers pinging every few minutes, firewall test reports blinking like distant stars. As his eyes adjusted to the subdued light, he made a habit of scanning camera feeds for movement, a reflex born from nights when "normal" just meant nothing had happened yet.
At 3:10, tension sharpened.
First, a faint flicker in the overhead lights—just one pulse, but enough to make Brandon look up, half-expecting the world to flicker out.
"Old wiring… always at night," he muttered.
Then, monitors glitched. Every camera feed—thirty-two windows across his screen—flashed white, then black, then reset. But the far corridor, the one with no windows, stayed a little darker than before.
Brandon leaned in, squinting.
The light at its end pulsed—one, two—and steadied.
For just a second, something moved: a ripple against the lens, a shadow stretched too thin, not quite human. When he rewound the footage, it was gone—empty.
He logged the glitch, following protocol, but something in his chest stayed tight.
In the break room, the vending machine buzzed to life as he entered, dropping a bag of sour cream chips before he'd touched a button.
Brandon stared, uneasy.
He crouched and pulled it out—his favorite.
"Alright, weird little blessing," he muttered, ripping the bag open.
But the air felt suddenly sharper—like the first breath after rain, or ozone before lightning. He froze, listening, waiting for rationality to explain it away.
When he returned to his desk, lo-fi beats barely filled the silence.
At 4:00, fatigue made the monitors blur and the quiet lull into something opaque. Brandon closed his eyes for a minute—
And found himself in the orchard again.
Rows of trees, roots pulsing like veins, sky rust-red above and windless. The fruit glowed deep crimson, so close he could reach it.
He stretched his hand—
A voice, closer than breath:
"You've already tasted it."
He snapped awake, heart racing—clock read 4:23.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor, slow and deliberate.
"Hello?" he called, voice steady with effort.
No answer.
He walked to the doorway, peering down the dim, humming hallway. Empty.
The air was tinged metallic, sharp as copper or distant thunder. Brandon lingered, every nerve waiting for explanation. There was none.
At dawn, he logged out, signed his report, and rubbed eyes. His phone buzzed—a text from Tariq:
"Yo, still alive? Breakfast on me if you're done."
Brandon smiled weakly. "Yeah," he whispered. "Barely."
He packed up, tossed on his jacket, and headed for the exit.
That's when he saw it: a single red leaf curled on the security room floor, its edges deep and living, the mark of pulse and dream.
No open windows. No nearby trees.
Brandon crouched, staring.
It was the same shade, the exact arc, as the fruit in his dream.
He hesitated, then picked it up. As it touched his skin, the lights flickered overhead—just once, settling to normal.
He slipped the leaf into his pocket, pulse thrumming, and walked out into the brightening city.
Behind him, a monitor blinked twice. For a breath, it showed the orchard—red fruit shimmering, roots writhing—then faded to black.