Persistence

Persistence


The Shift


The light in the building always came on a few minutes before full dawn. There was no reason for it to happen so early; no one had asked for it, no regulations stipulated it. Someone had set the timer long ago, and no one had bothered to change it. So every morning, the floors were lit while the city outside was still in that gray in-between hour when things haven't decided whether to begin or end.


The entrance smelled of detergent and damp. The floor held the cold of the night. The automatic doors opened silently and swallowed her inside, like every day.


She didn't feel like she was arriving at work. More like she was returning to a place that wasn't expecting her but was accepting her because she had to.


Her office was on the third floor. A row of identical desks, identical chairs, identical monitors. Only small personal details differed; a mug with a cracked rim, a plant that could stand even the slightest light, a photograph of a child that had turned yellow.


He put the bag down without haste. Before sitting down, he stood for a moment, looking at the empty seats. This moment was the only quiet moment of the day. Before the voices began, before the demands appeared, before the numbers became urgent.


Turn on the computer.


The starting sound broke the silence like a small promise that something would happen.


I never expected that work would be burdensome without touching anything. I don't lift boxes, I don't run, I don't shout. And yet, at the end of every shift, my body carries something invisible. As if I've held people without realizing it.


The screen filled with notifications. Pending requests, urgent entries, transfers from other services. Little squares with numbers and colors. Each color and a category of need.


Red for immediate danger.

Orange for possible deterioration.

Yellow for social support.

Gray for pending issues.


Most were gray.


It always was.


She sat down and put on her headphones. The chair creaked low. She typed in her code mechanically, without looking at the keyboard.


The first call came before he could drink water.


— Citizen Coordination Center, good morning.


The voice on the other end was slow to answer. There was breathing, then street noise.