Silent Night, Working Night

Charley slumped behind the doorman’s desk, his head resting against a fist as he stared at the blinking security monitors. Christmas Eve. The time of year when the lobby should’ve been bustling with residents carrying gifts, visitors buzzing in for family dinners, and the faint hum of holiday music filling the air.

But tonight? Silence.

The kind of silence that settles in your bones and makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally slipped into a ghost story.

Charley sniffled and pulled a tissue from his pocket, wiping his nose for what felt like the hundredth time. He was getting sick. Not that anyone would notice. His job wasn’t exactly conducive to human connection. He was the invisible man in a perfectly tailored uniform, a fixture more than a person.

The building’s residents—wealthy, polished, and perpetually in a hurry—rarely acknowledged him beyond a quick nod or a mumbled “thanks.” And now, most of them had left for the holidays, leaving Charley alone in the echoing lobby of their posh Upper East Side high-rise.

“Merry Christmas, Charley,” he mumbled to himself, the words dripping with sarcasm.

The intercom buzzed, startling him. Charley straightened up, cleared his throat, and pressed the button. “Good evening,” he said, trying to sound chipper.

“Hi, it’s Mrs. Hargrove in 15C. I think there’s a draft in the hallway. Can you check it out?”

Charley blinked at the screen. Mrs. Hargrove was one of the few residents still in the building, and apparently, she couldn’t endure the mild discomfort of a slightly chilly hallway.

“Of course, Mrs. Hargrove. I’ll take care of it,” Charley replied, his voice hoarse from the cold he was pretending not to have.

He grabbed his coat and stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the 15th floor. As the elevator hummed upward, he leaned against the wall and coughed into his sleeve—a deep, rattling cough that made his chest ache.

“Maybe I should’ve asked Santa for a lung transplant,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

The hallway on the 15th floor was, predictably, fine. No draft. No arctic windstorm sweeping through. Just the faint hum of the building’s heating system and the distant sound of a TV from one of the apartments. Charley stood there for a moment, staring at the ornate carpeting, wondering if anyone in the building ever considered that he might be human too.

After a few minutes of pretending to investigate the non-existent draft, he took the elevator back down to the lobby. The desk greeted him like an old friend—cold, unyielding, and reliable in its indifference.

Charley checked his phone. No messages. No holiday greetings from friends or family. Then again, working the overnight shift on Christmas Eve wasn’t exactly conducive to a thriving social life.

The front door opened with a soft whoosh. Charley’s heart leaped for a second. A visitor? A late-night delivery? Human interaction?

Nope. Just the wind. Cold and indifferent, like everything else tonight.

He returned to his chair and pulled out a thermos of lukewarm coffee, the last dregs of caffeine doing little to keep him awake. His head throbbed, his nose was a faucet, and his body ached in ways that made him feel older than his 32 years.

“This job’s gonna kill me,” he said to no one in particular.

The lobby remained empty, save for the sad little Christmas tree in the corner. Someone had draped it with tinsel and a few balls, but it looked as forgotten as Charley felt. He imagined it whispering to him, “At least you’re not the only thing left behind.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound turning into another cough. A Christmas tree with abandonment issues. Fitting.

Around 3 a.m., a figure finally entered the lobby. An older man in a tattered coat, his face gaunt and eyes sunken. He carried a small bag—a takeout container from a nearby diner—and shuffled up to the desk.

“Merry Christmas,” the man said, his voice raspy but warm.

Charley blinked. “Uh, Merry Christmas.” It felt strange to say it out loud.

The man placed the takeout container on the desk. “Got an extra. Thought you might need it more than me.”

Charley stared at the container, then back at the man. “Are you sure?”

The man smiled, a tired but genuine smile. “It’s Christmas. No one should be alone.”

Charley nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Thank you. Really.”

The man gave a small wave and shuffled back out into the cold night. Charley watched him go, the door closing with a soft click.

He opened the container. Chicken noodle soup. The smell filled the lobby, warm and comforting, cutting through the sterile air. He took a sip, the heat soothing his sore throat.

For a moment, the ache in his body and the emptiness of the lobby didn’t seem so overwhelming.

Charley leaned back in his chair, watching the first light of dawn creep through the glass doors. Christmas Day had arrived, quiet and unassuming.

“Maybe next year will be different,” he whispered.

And for the first time that night, he believed it might be.