The Shift That Doesn't Exist

The Shift That Doesn't Exist

Reed Morrison had been working the night shift at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner for three years, four months, and sixteen days. Not that anyone at the diner acknowledged this. Linda, the manager, continued to look mildly confused whenever Reed showed up for work, as if seeing them for the first time. The payroll system, however, had no such confusion—Reed's checks arrived with clockwork precision every two weeks, made out to "R. Morrison" in slightly faded ink.

The diner existed in that peculiar space between 11 PM and 6 AM, when Night Vale's regular impossibilities gave way to something even stranger. During these hours, Reed served coffee that sometimes showed tomorrow's weather in the foam and pie that made people temporarily forget their ex-boyfriends' names. Standard Night Vale fare, really.

It was 2:47 AM on a Tuesday when Reed first noticed the pattern.

The bell above the door chimed its usual off-key greeting, and Eleanor walked in. She wore the same 1960s wool coat she always wore—navy blue with silver buttons that caught the fluorescent light. Her gray hair was perfectly set in victory rolls that somehow never seemed affected by Night Vale's unpredictable weather phenomena.

"Good evening," Eleanor said, settling onto the red vinyl stool at the counter. She looked around the diner with mild surprise, as if she'd stumbled upon it accidentally. "This is a lovely little place. How long have you been open?"

Reed paused while wiping down the counter. They'd served Eleanor at least forty times in the past three months. Same seat, same expression of pleasant discovery, same question about the diner's history.

"We've been here a while," Reed replied carefully, studying Eleanor's face for any flicker of recognition. Nothing. "What can I get you?"

"Oh, I'd love a cup of coffee—black, please—and a slice of apple pie if you have it." Eleanor smiled warmly. "The smell reminds me of my grandmother's kitchen."

The smell reminds me of my grandmother's kitchen. Eleanor said this every single time. Reed had started anticipating the words, could mouth them along silently while measuring coffee grounds.

"Coming right up," Reed said, and began preparing the order they could have made blindfolded.

As the coffee percolated, Reed watched Eleanor examine the diner's decor—the vintage postcards from places that might not exist, the jukebox that played songs from decades that hadn't happened yet, the clock that had been stuck at 3:33 for as long as anyone could remember. Eleanor's expression remained one of charmed discovery, as if seeing it all for the first time.

The coffee finished brewing at exactly 2:52 AM. It always finished brewing at 2:52 AM when Eleanor was there. Reed poured it into the white ceramic mug—Eleanor's usual mug, though she never specified—and served it alongside a generous slice of pie.

"This is perfect," Eleanor said after her first sip, the same soft smile crossing her face. "Just like grandmother used to make."

She ate her pie in small, deliberate bites, occasionally gazing out the window at the empty street. At 3:15 AM, she would finish, leave exact change including a fifteen percent tip, and walk back out into the Night Vale darkness. Reed had watched this routine dozens of times.

Tonight, though, something made Reed pay closer attention. Maybe it was the way Eleanor's coat remained completely dry despite the light drizzle of what appeared to be glowing sand outside. Maybe it was how she never looked at her phone, never checked the time, never seemed to be in any hurry despite wandering around Night Vale at nearly three in the morning.

At 3:15 AM, Eleanor finished her pie, placed $8.47 on the counter, and stood to leave.

"Thank you so much," she said, buttoning her coat. "This was lovely. I'll have to remember this place."

And then she was gone, the bell chiming her departure.

Reed stared at the empty stool for a long moment, then quietly cleared Eleanor's plate and cup. The coffee mug was still warm, the fork still had pie crumbs on it. Real enough.

At 3:23 AM, the bell chimed again.

Marcus shuffled in, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his worn denim jacket. He was maybe twenty-five, with dark hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it and tired eyes that suggested he'd been walking for hours. He always looked like he'd been walking for hours.

"Hey," Marcus said, sliding into booth 7 without looking around. "Is this place new? I don't remember seeing it before."

Reed felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

"We've been here a while," Reed repeated, the same response they'd given Eleanor. "What can I get you?"

"Chocolate milkshake and fries," Marcus said, finally glancing around the diner with mild curiosity. "Weird being the only customer."

You're not, Reed thought. Eleanor was just here twenty minutes ago, same as every other night.

But Marcus would have no memory of Eleanor, just like Eleanor had no memory of Marcus. They existed in the same space but somehow never at the same time, never acknowledging each other's presence in any way that carried over.

Reed prepared the milkshake and fries, movements automatic. Marcus would drink exactly half the shake, eat all but three fries, and leave at 3:47 AM. He would pay with a twenty-dollar bill and tell Reed to keep the change. He would pause at the door and look back once, as if he'd forgotten something, then shake his head and leave.

As predicted, Marcus finished half his milkshake, left three fries on his plate, and stood to go at 3:47 AM.

"Keep the change," he said, placing the twenty on the table. At the door, he paused and looked back. "Thanks for... I feel like I was supposed to remember something."

He shook his head and walked out into the glowing sand drizzle.

Reed collected the twenty and cleared the table, mind racing. Two regulars who weren't regulars. Two people following exact scripts they didn't remember writing.

The bell chimed at 4:15 AM.

The Brennan twins entered together, as they always did. Identical in every way except that one wore a red scarf and the other wore blue. They couldn't have been older than sixteen, with matching blonde braids and the sort of pale, ethereal look that suggested they spent very little time in direct sunlight.

"Good morning," they said in perfect unison, their voices creating an odd harmony in the empty diner. "We'd like two hot chocolates with extra marshmallows, please."

Reed nodded and began preparing their order. The twins always sat in booth 3, always spoke in unison, always ordered the same thing.

"Are you just passing through?" Reed asked, testing something. They'd never asked this question before.

The twins tilted their heads in identical confusion.

"We're just passing through," the red-scarf twin said.

"On our way home," added the blue-scarf twin.

"From where?" Reed pressed.

The twins looked at each other, then back at Reed with identical blank expressions.

"We're just passing through," they repeated in unison, as if Reed hadn't asked for clarification.

Reed served their hot chocolate and watched them drink it in synchronized sips. At 4:33 AM, they would finish, leave exact change, and walk out together. The between-hours would end, and Reed's shift would return to its normal level of Night Vale strangeness.

But tonight, Reed made a decision.

After the twins left at precisely 4:33 AM, Reed walked to the supply closet and retrieved a small notebook they'd been keeping for grocery lists. Instead of groceries, though, Reed wrote:

Tuesday, 2:47 AM - Eleanor - black coffee, apple pie, "reminds me of grandmother's kitchen," navy coat (dry despite glowing sand rain), exact change $8.47

3:23 AM - Marcus - chocolate shake, fries, booth 7, "is this place new?", left 3 fries, $20 bill, paused at door

4:15 AM - Brennan twins - hot chocolate extra marshmallows, booth 3, speak in unison, "passing through on way home," won't/can't explain where from

Reed stared at the notebook for a long moment, then tucked it behind the coffee machine where Linda would never think to look.

Tomorrow night, Reed would be ready.