The Lights Delay

The office uses motion-sensor lights.

They’re supposed to save money. They’re supposed to make late shifts feel less lonely—rows of cubicles blooming with white light as you walk past, proof that the building sees you.

I work late enough that I know their timing by heart.

Three steps into an aisle—click.

Two seconds of hesitation—buzz.

The next row wakes up just before you reach it.

That’s how it’s always been.

Tonight, the lights were late.

I noticed it halfway back from the break room. I stepped into the cubicle aisle and waited for the familiar flicker.

Nothing.

I took another step.

Still dark.

Then—click—the lights came on.

Behind me.

I turned.

The row I’d just walked through was fully lit, fluorescent panels humming softly. The aisle ahead of me remained dark, stretching into shadow.

I laughed under my breath. Sensors glitch. Everyone knows that.

I kept walking.

This time, the delay was longer.

I reached the end of the aisle before the lights activated—and again, they lit the row behind me. Perfect timing. Like they were responding to motion that wasn’t mine.

I stopped.

The office went quiet in that deep, padded way it only does after midnight. No typing. No printers. Just the low ventilation hum, barely audible.

I didn’t move.

Two seconds passed.

Click.

The lights behind me flicked on again—one row closer.

I swallowed.

I stayed still.

Click.

Closer.

The light pattern advanced aisle by aisle, each activation accompanied by the soft buzz of fluorescents warming up. No rushing. No mistakes. Whatever was triggering them knew exactly how fast to move.

I told myself it had to be the HVAC system. Air displacement. Temperature shifts.

The lights were getting close enough now that I could see the edges of brightness creeping toward my row.

I didn’t want to turn around.

Click.

The aisle directly behind me lit up.

I felt heat on the back of my neck—not warmth, exactly. Awareness.

I held my breath.

Click.

My row illuminated.

Every cubicle around me burst into light at once, monitors reflecting white glare, chairs casting long shadows across the carpet.

For one perfect, silent second, I thought it was over.

Then every light on the floor shut off.

All of them.

No flicker. No fade. Just darkness, thick and immediate, like the building had closed its eyes.

Somewhere behind me, I heard the soft click of a sensor resetting.

Waiting.

I didn’t stay to see which row would light up next.