The iced tea wasn't there.
She'd closed the register. Locked the fridge. Turned off the lights in their usual order. She would've noticed if he'd left it behind.
Wouldn't she?
Lina crouched behind the counter, scanning the floor. Maybe he'd placed it near the mop bucket. Or behind the endcap where the candies always slipped through the cracks.
Nothing.
She checked the break room next. Opened the mini fridge, though he never went in there. Just soda cans and leftover noodles. Her own things. Things that should still belong to her.
But tonight, even her own fingerprints felt borrowed.
She went back to the floor. Back to the counter.
There it was.
The can. Right where it wasn't before.
And underneath it—a note.
Just a small square of folded paper, creased like someone had done it too carefully. Not a customer receipt. Not a promotion flyer.
Just…
Paper. With her name on it.
She didn't touch it right away. The air around it felt a degree colder.
The kind of cold that didn't come from refrigeration.
When she finally unfolded it, the ink was dark. Firm. Written with a hand that knew how to stay quiet.
Only one sentence.
You missed it.
No punctuation. No explanation.
Just those words, like a whisper in black.
She held the note to her chest for a second, without meaning to. As if it could still carry warmth.
But it didn't.
It was dry.
Unfeeling.
She closed the store late, even though no one else came in.
Took longer than usual to lock the door.
Checked the cameras once more before heading out. Watched the footage play back in grainy black and white.
No one placed the can.
No one approached the counter.
No one wrote the note.
No movement. No sound. No blip in the feed.
Just her.
Her own hands. Her own steps.
Except it wasn't right. The can was in the shot before she walked past that aisle. Before she was supposed to see it.
Still, there it was.
Just sitting there. Still cold.
She rewound it. Three times.
Same result.
Same impossible presence.
She reached for the screen with a trembling hand, like maybe she'd catch it flickering. But it held steady. Perfectly stable.
Which made it worse.
She didn't go home right away.
Instead, she sat in the break room.
Music silent. Phone untouched.
She thought about texting someone, anyone—but didn't know what she'd say.
"Hey, a ghost bought a can of iced tea and left me a sticky note."No.
That would make it less strange than it was.
This wasn't supernatural. This was personal.
She didn't sleep much that morning.
When she did, she dreamed—not of him, exactly, but of shadows in the store, moving without sound, arranging objects that vanished before she turned her head.
In the dream, someone said her name.
Not out loud.
But she still heard it.
And when she woke up, her pillow smelled faintly like something she couldn't name. Not cologne. Not detergent. Not sweat.
Something colder. Familiar.
Rain.Metal.Memory.
She didn't like how her hands felt on the sheets. Like they'd done something without her.
She checked her phone.
No messages.
One notification from the security app.
Motion detected — 3:03 AM.
She played the clip.
Nothing moved.
But the door was ajar.
Back at work, she wiped the counter down three times before anyone came in. Not because it was dirty—just because.
A pen rolled off the edge. She caught it.
It felt too warm, like someone else had just used it.
She didn't write anything.
Didn't want to see her own handwriting.
Near midnight, the chime above the door rang.
Him.
Same hoodie. Same earbuds.
Same silence.
But tonight, he looked straight at her.
Not through her.
At her.
He didn't smile. He never did. But there was something else in his eyes.
Something… steady.
He placed the iced tea on the counter like always.
She reached for it.
He didn't let go immediately.
Just one second too long.
Then:
"Did you find it?"
The words knocked something loose inside her chest.
"Find what?" she whispered.
"You'll know."
He placed exact change next to the can.
Turned to leave.
Then paused.
Without facing her, he said:
"See you before."
And he left.
She stood alone, again.
Lights buzzing overhead.
The can sweating on the counter.
The note still in her pocket.
She wanted to unfold it again. Read it. Find a second sentence hidden in the crease.
But she didn't.
Because maybe she already had.
Maybe it was just written somewhere she hadn't looked yet.
She looked at the security monitor. Nothing there but pixels.
Then the can. Still unopened.
She picked it up.
It was warm.
It had never been cold.
And the sound the register made when she scanned it was different.
Like it recognized something before she did.