Stevens arrived at the factory when winter’s first frost gripped the air. No one knew where he’d come from. He wasn’t local—that much was obvious. His voice carried the faintest northern lilt, but he gave nothing away. The receptionist whispered that he’d been sent by a security firm, a temporary replacement. His papers were clean—sober, quiet, always composed. Polite, yet distant, as though every word had to pass through an unseen barrier.
“Just don’t sleep on duty,” muttered the head of security, flipping through the file without interest. “The rest, you’ll pick up.”
Stevens never slept. Not once. The other guards dozed by the radiators or dragged in camp beds for the night shifts. But he sat perfectly still, like a statue. No fidgeting, no sighs. Only the occasional shift of his gaze from the monitors to the iron gates and back. He drank nothing but water—no tea, no sugar. Didn’t smoke. Brought his food in a thermos—mutton stew and a hunk of brown bread wrapped in an old cloth. Ate slowly, staring into nothing, as if it were a ritual, not a necessity.
At first, they mocked him. Called him “The Flint” for his stone-like stillness and grim focus. Joked he was a runaway monk or a hermit, especially after someone caught his whisper—soft, like an incantation. Another rumour claimed he was ex-military: too precise in his movements, too sharp in the way his eyes scanned the yard. But no one knew the truth. Stevens never spoke long. Answered only what was needed, as if this job were a mission, not just a shift.
Four months passed. He became part of the scenery. Unnoticed, like rust on the fence. He manned the gate, logged names, raised the barrier for lorries, watched the cameras. Always silent. Always expressionless. Sometimes it seemed he didn’t even breathe—just watched, like a man entrusted with guarding something far greater than warehouses and workshops.
Then, one February night, a boy slipped onto the grounds. A gap in the fence, same as always. Came to nick some copper piping, thought no one would see. But he slipped on icy debris near the old hangar and went down hard. Screamed until his voice shredded. Stevens didn’t hear it on the monitors—he just *knew*. Ran out, found him. The kid lay there, teeth gritted, face whiter than snow. His leg was broken, the bone jutting through torn denim.
Stevens called an ambulance. While they waited, he splinted the leg with a scrap of wood and his own belt—quick, sure, like he’d done it a hundred times before. Didn’t speak, just clenched the boy’s hand to keep him conscious. Stood there, unblinking, until the medics took him away. Then he returned to his post, changed his damp coat, and sat back at the monitors. As if nothing had happened. As if it were just another night.
After that, they spoke of him differently. Noticed he was always first in, last out. That the gatehouse stayed cleaner, like someone swept it at night. That petty thefts from the stockyard stopped. Even the stray dog that haunted the factory slept by his door now, growling at strangers—as if it knew this man was more than just a guard.
Then, in April, he vanished. Didn’t show for his shift. No call, no warning. His phone went dead. Management checked his file—no address listed. Just the basics: passport number, a sharp, angular signature, and a defunct agency’s contact. The passport was real, but unregistered. As if Stevens only existed on paper.
They found his keys at the post, his uniform folded with military precision, and a single note: *”Thank you for the quiet.”* The paper was aged, edges darkened, the handwriting clean—almost carved. One guard swore it looked like something from another century.
The dog waited by the door for three days. Didn’t eat, didn’t whimper. Just lifted its head when the gate creaked. Its eyes searched the emptiness but still *hoped.* On the fourth morning, it stood, circled the post once, and left—slowly, like it finally understood no one was coming back.
A month later, a welder from the next unit swore he saw Stevens across town. Sat on a bench outside a school, same long coat buttoned high, collar up. Staring at the gate. Motionless. Held a newspaper but didn’t read it—just gripped it like something precious.
When someone approached, he stood, gave a curt nod, and walked away—no glance back. Moved slow, like a man with nowhere to be but still walking all the same.
They never saw him again. Not at the school, not in the city, nowhere. But sometimes, when the night shift guards are alone and the lights are off, they’ll swear they can *feel* someone beyond the gates. Standing. Silent. Still.
As if someone’s there. Just unseen.
