The Night Counter

The automated doors slid shut behind me with a soft hiss, and the fluorescent hum of the bank’s main lobby gave way to the thicker silence of the back offices. I worked the graveyard shift at the Mercantile Trust Building, a sprawling financial hive in the heart of Metro Manila, handling international wire transfers. Most nights were a numb cycle of glowing screens and muted clicks, broken only by the occasional clatter of the overnight cleaning crew. But tonight, the silence felt different—denser, as if the building itself was holding its breath.

At 2:47 AM, my break timer chimed. I stretched, cracking my knuckles, and grabbed my vape from the drawer. The designated smoking area was a narrow balcony on the 14th floor, accessible through a fire door that always stuck a little. I had to shoulder it open, and the night air hit me—humid, tinged with the distant smell of roasted peanuts from a street vendor three blocks down. I expected the usual emptiness, but there she was: a woman standing alone near the railing, perfectly still, not smoking, not holding a phone, just staring out at the black glass towers across the street.

I didn’t want to make it awkward. I moved to the far corner, turned my back to her, and unscrewed the cap of my vape juice. The liquid was thick, honey-colored, and I focused on filling the tank without spilling. In my peripheral vision, I saw her head turn slightly, as if she had noticed me. I kept my eyes down. The city was a low growl below us, but up here, the only sound was the faint buzz of a dying neon sign somewhere. I must have been more tired than I thought, because when I finally capped the tank and took a long drag, I felt a strange heaviness in my chest—not the nicotine, but a pressure, like the air around me had thickened.

I glanced at my watch. 2:52. Five minutes left. I was about to take another drag when the silence broke. A loud, mechanical clatter erupted from inside the bank—the sound of the coin-counting machine in the vault, which was supposed to be off during the night shift. My heart hammered. I turned to the glass door, and in the reflection, I saw the woman move. She was walking toward me, her footsteps making no sound. I spun around, but she was already closer than she should have been, close enough that I could smell something like old paper and dust.

I stammered, ‘Uh, hi. Can I help you?’ She smiled, but her lips didn’t quite match the motion, like a bad dub. She said, ‘Do you have the time?’ Her voice was flat, but the words hung in the air like static. I checked my phone. ‘It’s 2:53.’ She nodded slowly, and her gaze dropped to my hand. ‘That thing you’re holding. It glows. Does it hurt when you breathe it in?’ I laughed nervously, but she didn’t. ‘No, it’s just vapor,’ I said, taking a short puff to demonstrate. She watched the cloud dissipate, then she lifted her own hand. In it, she held a crumpled, yellowed receipt, creased and worn. ‘They gave me this when I opened my account,’ she said. ‘It says I should come back tonight to finalize. But I’ve been waiting since 1978.’

My blood went cold. I took an involuntary step back, and my back hit the railing. The woman tilted her head, and for the first time, I noticed that the hem of her dress—a pale, old-fashioned thing—ended just above her ankles, where her feet were bare, and they didn’t quite touch the ground. A faint, bluish light pulsed from her fingers, and I could see the receipt clearly: it was stamped with the old Mercantile Trust logo, the one that had been retired decades ago, and a date: 07/14/1978. The same date as today’s, just forty years apart. She took a step closer, and the air grew cold enough to see my own breath. ‘You’re lucky,’ she said, ‘you got to leave after your shift. I never did.’

I shoved the vape into my pocket and ran for the door. It wouldn’t open. I yanked harder, but the handle felt frozen. Behind me, I heard her voice, no longer flat, but a chorus of whispers, like a crowd in a tunnel. ‘The counter is off by one,’ she said. ‘Every night, I wait. Tonight, you’re here. So you’ll take my place.’ I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, the balcony was empty. The door swung open easily, and I stumbled into the fluorescent hallway, gasping. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely breathe. I didn’t go back. I found a security guard in the lobby and told him something—I don’t remember what—and he just nodded as if he knew. He said, ‘Ah, the lady in the balcony. She’s been here for years. They say she’s still waiting for her account to be credited.’ I didn’t ask more. I clocked out early and went home, and I haven’t gone back since.

But here’s the thing: last night, I found a crumpled, yellowed receipt in the pocket of my jacket. It wasn’t mine. On it was written, in faded ink, ‘You have a pending transaction. Please return to finalize.’ And on the bottom, a date: the same as tonight’s. I’m writing this because I need to understand. And also because I’m scared that if I don’t finish my shift tonight, someone else will have to meet her. She said the counter is off by one. I’m starting to think I know what she meant.