The fifth-floor corridor always felt colder than the rest of the building. Tonight, the cold was a living thing, seeping through the soles of Idris’s worn-out shoes. It wasn't the usual draft from the old window frames; it was a profound, waiting stillness. The only sound was the hum of the overhead light, painting the green tiles in a color that reminded him of deep, undisturbed water.

His routine was the spine of his nights: a slow, deliberate patrol on every floor, checking locks, listening to the building’s sleepy sighs. But tonight, the rhythm was broken. The elevator at the end of the hall was behaving strangely. Its doors would slide open with a soft, apologetic chime, pause for exactly twelve seconds, and then slide shut. Above it, the indicator was frozen: ↓5. An arrow pointing to a journey it refused to take.

Idris frowned. He’d reported the faulty call button last week. "We'll get to it, Idris chacha," the day-shift manager had said, patting his shoulder. "It's not urgent."

He walked towards it, the squeak of his shoes seeming too loud in the oppressive silence. The doors opened as he approached, offering a glimpse inside. It was empty. He felt a strange sense of relief, though he wasn't sure what he’d expected to see. He reached out to press the lobby button, but his fingers hesitated. The air flowing out of the elevator car was unnaturally cold, carrying a scent he couldn't place—like rain on dust and something metallic, like an old key.

He took a step back, deciding to use his radio to call maintenance directly. He unclipped the device from his belt. "This is Idris, night watch, fifth floor," he said. "The elevator is stuck in a loop. Over."

Silence. Not even the usual crackle of static answered him. He tried again. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Nothing. The radio in his hand felt like a dead weight, a hollow piece of plastic. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold ran down his spine. He looked at his hands. They seemed pale under the green light, almost translucent. He tried to feel his own pulse at his wrist, a foolish, panicked gesture. He felt nothing. Just cold skin.

The elevator doors sighed open again. This time, he forced himself to look closer, peering into the corner. And his breath—or the memory of it—caught in his throat.

There was a man on the floor, slumped against the back wall. An old security guard, his familiar grey uniform neat, his head bowed as if in prayer. A dark stain marred the steel panel behind him.

Idris stared, his mind refusing to connect the dots. He knew that uniform. He knew the slight fraying on the collar. He knew the way the man’s silver hair caught the light. With a slow, creeping dread that was colder than the corridor itself, he recognized the face.

It was his own.

The memory didn't flash; it bloomed, slowly and painfully. He had been on his patrol an hour ago. He’d received a call on his personal phone—not the radio. It was Mrs. Khan from the 8th floor, an elderly widow. Her power had gone out, and she was scared. He had promised to come right up. "Don't you worry, amma," he had told her. "I'm on my way."

He had been on the fifth floor, heading for the elevator. As he stepped inside, a sudden, crushing weight had pressed down on his chest, stealing his breath. A sharp, searing pain. He remembered stumbling back, his head hitting the wall. His last conscious thought was not of himself, but of Mrs. Khan, alone in the dark, waiting. I have to get to her.

The doors chimed and began to close. He was sealed inside with his own lifeless body, yet he was also standing outside, a silent witness. He was not a ghost in the traditional sense; he was an echo. The echo of an unfulfilled duty.

The elevator was not stuck because of a faulty button. It was held in place by the sheer force of his final promise. His spirit, or whatever was left of him, refused to descend. It was still trying to go up.

He watched, helpless, as the doors continued their cycle. He was trapped not in a place, but in a moment—the moment between a promise and its failure. This wasn't a punishment. It was a vigil.

Time lost its meaning. There was only the hum, the chime, and the cold.

Then, a new sound. Footsteps, brisk and young, coming up the stairs. A new security guard, barely a boy, appeared at the end of the corridor. He saw the cycling elevator and paused, his brow furrowed with concern.

The young man didn't see Idris. He just felt the strange cold. He approached the elevator, pulled out his radio—a new, functioning model—and made the call. "This is Farid. Fifth-floor elevator is malfunctioning. The doors are stuck in a loop. I'm going to check the manual override in the machine room."

Idris watched as the young guard opened the panel down the hall, just as Idris himself had been trained to do. There was a loud clank, a whir of machinery resetting.

Farid returned to the elevator. The doors were now closed and still. He pressed the call button. The red ↓5 flickered, the arrow vanished, and was replaced by a simple, steady L. With a gentle sigh, different from before, the elevator began its descent.

As the car moved, a strange lightness filled Idris. The crushing weight of his unfulfilled promise was lifting. Someone else had taken up the duty. Mrs. Khan would not be left alone.

The cold in the corridor began to recede. The oppressive silence was replaced by the normal, gentle sounds of a sleeping building. Idris looked down at his pale, translucent hands one last time. They were fading.

The hum of the overhead light seemed softer now, almost like a lullaby. His shift was finally over. He was no longer the keeper of the fifth floor, just a memory of a promise kept. And in the newfound quiet, he could finally rest.

The fifth-floor corridor always felt colder than the rest of the building. Tonight, the cold was a living thing, seeping through the soles of Idris’s worn-out shoes. It wasn't the usual draft from the old window frames; it was a profound, waiting stillness. The only sound was the hum of the overhead light, painting the green tiles in a color that reminded him of deep, undisturbed water.

His routine was the spine of his nights: a slow, deliberate patrol on every floor, checking locks, listening to the building’s sleepy sighs. But tonight, the rhythm was broken. The elevator at the end of the hall was behaving strangely. Its doors would slide open with a soft, apologetic chime, pause for exactly twelve seconds, and then slide shut. Above it, the indicator was frozen: ↓5. An arrow pointing to a journey it refused to take.

Idris frowned. He’d reported the faulty call button last week. "We'll get to it, Idris chacha," the day-shift manager had said, patting his shoulder. "It's not urgent."

He walked towards it, the squeak of his shoes seeming too loud in the oppressive silence. The doors opened as he approached, offering a glimpse inside. It was empty. He felt a strange sense of relief, though he wasn't sure what he’d expected to see. He reached out to press the lobby button, but his fingers hesitated. The air flowing out of the elevator car was unnaturally cold, carrying a scent he couldn't place—like rain on dust and something metallic, like an old key.

He took a step back, deciding to use his radio to call maintenance directly. He unclipped the device from his belt. "This is Idris, night watch, fifth floor," he said. "The elevator is stuck in a loop. Over."

Silence. Not even the usual crackle of static answered him. He tried again. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Nothing. The radio in his hand felt like a dead weight, a hollow piece of plastic. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold ran down his spine. He looked at his hands. They seemed pale under the green light, almost translucent. He tried to feel his own pulse at his wrist, a foolish, panicked gesture. He felt nothing. Just cold skin.

The elevator doors sighed open again. This time, he forced himself to look closer, peering into the corner. And his breath—or the memory of it—caught in his throat.

There was a man on the floor, slumped against the back wall. An old security guard, his familiar grey uniform neat, his head bowed as if in prayer. A dark stain marred the steel panel behind him.

Idris stared, his mind refusing to connect the dots. He knew that uniform. He knew the slight fraying on the collar. He knew the way the man’s silver hair caught the light. With a slow, creeping dread that was colder than the corridor itself, he recognized the face.

It was his own.

The memory didn't flash; it bloomed, slowly and painfully. He had been on his patrol an hour ago. He’d received a call on his personal phone—not the radio. It was Mrs. Khan from the 8th floor, an elderly widow. Her power had gone out, and she was scared. He had promised to come right up. "Don't you worry, amma," he had told her. "I'm on my way."

He had been on the fifth floor, heading for the elevator. As he stepped inside, a sudden, crushing weight had pressed down on his chest, stealing his breath. A sharp, searing pain. He remembered stumbling back, his head hitting the wall. His last conscious thought was not of himself, but of Mrs. Khan, alone in the dark, waiting. I have to get to her.

The doors chimed and began to close. He was sealed inside with his own lifeless body, yet he was also standing outside, a silent witness. He was not a ghost in the traditional sense; he was an echo. The echo of an unfulfilled duty.

The elevator was not stuck because of a faulty button. It was held in place by the sheer force of his final promise. His spirit, or whatever was left of him, refused to descend. It was still trying to go up.

He watched, helpless, as the doors continued their cycle. He was trapped not in a place, but in a moment—the moment between a promise and its failure. This wasn't a punishment. It was a vigil.

Time lost its meaning. There was only the hum, the chime, and the cold.

Then, a new sound. Footsteps, brisk and young, coming up the stairs. A new security guard, barely a boy, appeared at the end of the corridor. He saw the cycling elevator and paused, his brow furrowed with concern.

The young man didn't see Idris. He just felt the strange cold. He approached the elevator, pulled out his radio—a new, functioning model—and made the call. "This is Farid. Fifth-floor elevator is malfunctioning. The doors are stuck in a loop. I'm going to check the manual override in the machine room."

Idris watched as the young guard opened the panel down the hall, just as Idris himself had been trained to do. There was a loud clank, a whir of machinery resetting.

Farid returned to the elevator. The doors were now closed and still. He pressed the call button. The red ↓5 flickered, the arrow vanished, and was replaced by a simple, steady L. With a gentle sigh, different from before, the elevator began its descent.

As the car moved, a strange lightness filled Idris. The crushing weight of his unfulfilled promise was lifting. Someone else had taken up the duty. Mrs. Khan would not be left alone.

The cold in the corridor began to recede. The oppressive silence was replaced by the normal, gentle sounds of a sleeping building. Idris looked down at his pale, translucent hands one last time. They were fading.

The hum of the overhead light seemed softer now, almost like a lullaby. His shift was finally over. He was no longer the keeper of the fifth floor, just a memory of a promise kept. And in the newfound quiet, he could finally rest.