Hospitals run on turnover.
Nurses quit.
Interns rotate.
Residents burn out.
Even surgeons eventually leave, with plaques and polite handshakes.
So no one thought twice when a memo appeared on the bulletin board:
"Facilities Update: New Custodial Tech Supervisor Assigned. All personnel report to Supervisor Dent as of Monday."
I stood there reading it three times, like it would eventually make sense.
Supervisor Dent.
Corporate-sounding.
Clean font.
Too clean.
No one said a word about Everett.
No transfer.
No retirement.
No farewell coffee cake in the break room.
He was just… not there.
Dent showed up that Monday at 7:00 a.m. sharp.
Khaki uniform. Clipboard.
White sneakers that had never touched bleach.
A voice like unused sandpaper—gritty, but not broken in.
"I'm here to bring some order to the facilities department," he announced at the morning huddle. "Protocols. Efficiency. Modern sanitation methods."
He passed out pamphlets.
Charts.
Performance standards.
He referred to staff by job codes.
Didn't learn names.
When asked where Everett had gone, he answered with a shrug:
"Probably promoted, transferred, or retired. No record."
But there was a problem.
Everett hadn't left anything behind.
No mop.
No bucket.
No keys.
Not even a closet.
Like he had packed himself away.
But the building remembered him.
We started noticing things.
Floor scuffs that wouldn't come out.
Paper towel dispensers that jammed, no matter how many times they were refilled.
Buzzing lights that had been replaced twice, still flickering like they were waiting for his hand.
One nurse said her cart's wheel wouldn't roll properly until she whispered, "Everett would've fixed this."
It started working 10 seconds later.
Dent didn't believe in superstition.
He believed in metrics.
He had sensors installed.
Timed bathroom turnovers.
Posted laminated signs that read, "Your Cleanliness Is Our Priority!"
But things… got worse.
More spills.
More leaks.
More silence.
Not dramatic. Not paranormal.
Just wrong.
Like the building itself was rejecting the new blood.
Then, a call came over the intercom during lunch:
"Spill in Room 203. Custodial team requested immediately."
Dent stormed down the hall with a cart loaded like a military vehicle.
Triple-compartment mop bucket. Digital pH readers.
Brushed aluminum tools like he was prepping for surgery.
But when he got there, the spill was already gone.
Completely.
No trace.
No dampness.
No paper towels.
Nothing.
Just the faint smell of lemon.
The kind only one person ever used.
Over the next few days, Dent grew twitchy.
He started asking weird questions.
"Who's been clocking in after hours?"
"Who refilled the soap dispenser in Room 6B without logging it?"
"Why are towels folding themselves?"
The staff said nothing.
But I knew.
I saw Everett again on the third night.
Not during my shift.
Not in a hallway.
I found him in the boiler room.
Sitting on an old crate.
Looking like he'd been there since the place was built.
His mop was leaning against the wall.
Still clean.
Still perfect.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, voice low.
He shrugged.
"Didn't want to leave. So I didn't."
"They replaced you."
"Systems like theirs always do."
"You're not mad?"
He looked at me.
Not angry.
Not sad.
Just… steady.
"I was never hired to be kept," he said.
"I was here to see what others refuse to look at."
I sat beside him.
It was warmer down there than it should've been.
"Why the basement?"
"Because it's under everything. Like truth. Like pain. No one comes down here unless something breaks."
"And what if everything breaks?"
He smiled.
"Then I mop. I've got time."
The next day, Dent put in a formal request to transfer.
No incident. No public complaint.
Just a note, turned in by hand:
"I believe I'm not the right fit for this environment. There are… unquantifiable factors interfering with operations."
No one argued.
The request was processed.
He left the next morning without speaking to anyone.
But later that evening, the intercom buzzed again:
"Facilities, please report to OR 2. We have a spill."
No one moved.
Until we heard it.
Squeak.
Mop wheels on tile.
I passed him in the hallway, same as always.
Same steps.
Same presence.
"Welcome back," I said.
He paused.
"I never left."
Then kept walking, toward whatever the building needed.
Or maybe…
whatever we needed.