Midnight Floors

Every night at 2 AM, our janitor rides the elevator to floors that don’t

exist on the building plans. Our tower is 12 stories on paper, but the car’s panel

shows 13, 14, and 15 after midnight. If management learns I followed him,

I’ll lose my badge—if I’m lucky. When the doors open, the hallways are lit like an emergency

drill—dim strips, buzzing exit signs, carpets damp with footprints that don’t match his

boots. Offices repeat in impossible loops; I pass the same chipped ficus three

times, each with a different nametag on the pot. The janitor doesn’t clean spills; he

erases them. He swipes the mop through a smear of muddy prints, and the memory of