Someone's always getting water.
Have you ever felt this way?
You're working overtime deep into the night, the only person left on the entire floor. You clearly hear movement from the break room, but when you walk over, there's no one there.
I've heard it. For three whole months.
At first, I thought it was just the machine. That water cooler was almost ten years old. When it heated water, it gurgled like someone was filling a cup. Admin said they'd replace it, but the request was never approved. The reason? "It still works."
If it works, don't replace it. That's just how the company is.
My name is Lin Shen. I'm a backend developer at Shengtian Tech, employee number 02847. Our company takes up floors 17 to 21 in this high-tech zone building. I work on the e-commerce backend, and overtime is normal. At least three or four nights a week, I stay until midnight. If I miss the last subway, I sleep at the office — a folding bed under my desk, a blanket in the cabinet, and the takeout delivery number saved first in my phone.
I'm used to it. Really.
So when I heard the sound of water being poured at three in the morning that day, I didn't think anything of it.
Gulp. Gulp, gulp.
The sound of water flowing into a cup, muffled through two glass doors.
I stared at the code on my screen, the cursor blinking on line seventeen. I'd been hunting that bug since two o'clock, almost an hour, my eyes stinging. The sound of pouring water started just as I hit an infinite loop, my head buzzing.
Fine. I'll get a drink.
I pushed open the glass door and walked through the open office. Sixty-odd workstations on this floor, all the lights off except for the faint green glow of emergency exit signs. My desk was in the corner, and to reach the break room, I had to pass rows of dark cubicles.
I stopped halfway.
The water cooler was still making noise. Gulp, gulp — enough to fill a cup, then a short pause, then pouring again.
That wasn't right.
I stood in the middle of the hallway and listened. The break room lights were motion-sensor; they only turned on when someone entered. If someone was inside getting water, the lights should be on. But the break room was pitch black, only a little neon light from outside seeping through the small window on the door.
Yet the sound continued.
Gulp. Gulp, gulp.
I didn't move.
I stood there for ten seconds, then the sound stopped.
Then footsteps.
Very light footsteps, coming from inside the break room, step by step, toward the door.
I stepped back.
The break room door creaked open.
No one.
The door opened by itself, then bounced shut, swaying slowly. Night wind slipped through the window gap, making the door creak softly.
I stood frozen, my heart racing. After two minutes, I walked over, pushed the door open, and turned on the light.
The break room was empty.
The water cooler's green indicator light was on, in normal standby mode. The counter was clean, no water stains, no cups.
I turned on the hot water tap. The sound of flowing water was exactly the same as what I'd heard. Gulp, gulp.
It was the machine. It must have been the machine.
I carried my cup back to my desk and kept debugging.
At nine the next morning, the intern Xiao Chen arrived.
His full name was Chen Yiming. He'd just graduated in June and was assigned to our team for frontend development. His desk was diagonally opposite the break room; from where I sat, I could see half the back of his head.
"Morning, Brother Lin," he waved and sat down to turn on his computer.
Morning my ass. I hadn't slept at all.
I rubbed my eyes, ready to pack up and go home. I paused as I passed his desk.
He had three cups on it.
A thermos, a glass, a Starbucks tumbler — all full of water.
"You raising fish or something?"
Xiao Chen looked up and smiled, a little embarrassed. "I've been really thirsty lately. I keep waking up in the middle of the night, and as soon as I wake up, I need water."
"In the middle of the night?"
"Yeah, I woke up twice again last night." He rubbed his eyes. "The place I rent has terrible sound insulation. I keep hearing pipes running, whooshing like someone's leaving the tap on. I wake up thirsty, drink water, then can't fall asleep again, scrolling my phone until dawn."
He yawned, dark circles heavy under his eyes.
I didn't say anything and left.
For the next few days, I worked overtime four nights in a row.
The project was going live, and the whole team was rushing. Staying until one or two in the morning was normal; three wasn't unusual. I just didn't go home. When I got tired at night, I napped on my desk, then woke up and kept coding.
In the early hours of those days, I always heard noises from the break room.
Sometimes the sound of pouring water. Gulp, gulp — one cup, pause, then another.
Sometimes footsteps. Walking out of the break room, down the hallway, near a row of desks, then vanishing.
Sometimes the clink of a cup being set down. Soft, like someone gently placing a glass.
I didn't go check.
The sounds always appeared at the same time — around three in the morning. I checked the footage — not the company cameras, only admin could access those. I'd installed a small camera myself, hidden behind a plant outside the break room.
I watched the playback the next day.
At 2:59 a.m., the break room door opened on its own.
It stayed open for ten seconds. No one entered, no one left. Then the water cooler started making noise, gulping for three full minutes.
After three minutes, the door closed by itself.
I replayed the clip over and over. The motion light didn't turn on when the door opened. Nothing came out when it closed.
I deleted the video and put the camera away.
Some things are better left unknown.
The turning point came two weeks later.
The team had a dinner to celebrate the project launch. We finished around nine, and everyone wanted to go karaoke. I declined, saying I was tired and wanted to go home.
I didn't go home, though.
I went back to the office.
There was a line of code that had felt off when I wrote it, untested before launch, and it had been bugging me. I couldn't sleep at home anyway, so I might as well check it at work.
I arrived just before eleven. I was the only one on this floor, all the lights on, the workstations empty, the hum of computer fans blending together.
I sat down, turned on my computer, and pulled up that line of code.
I fixed it in thirty minutes, tested it three times. No issues.
I leaned back in my chair and exhaled — then suddenly felt thirsty.
Break room.
I stood up and started walking. Halfway there, I remembered those early mornings over the past two weeks, the door opening on its own, the gulping water.
I froze in the hallway.
The break room light was on.
Motion-sensor, only activated when someone entered. But there was no one inside — the door was open, the light on, the water cooler standing quietly, its green light blinking.
I stared at the door.
The light stayed on for two minutes, then turned off.
A minute later, it turned on again.
Then I heard footsteps.
From inside the break room, very soft, step by step, walking toward the door.
A figure appeared in the doorway.
It was a man, wearing an old company uniform — dark blue, with a silver logo stitched on the chest, a style replaced five years ago. He wasn't tall, a little thin, his face ashen, like he'd been locked in a dark room for a long time.
In his hand, he held a white ceramic cup printed with: Shengtian Tech 10th Anniversary.
He was getting water.
The hot water tap was open, water rushing loudly into the cup, steam rising from the rim. He stared at the flowing water, motionless.
I stepped back and kicked a trash can.
Bang.
He looked up at me.
It was the strangest look I had ever seen. Not fear, not anger, not hostile staring. He just looked at me, like I was a stranger, a little curious, a little confused.
Then he smiled.
A normal smile. The corner of his mouth twitched up, eyes curved. The kind of smile colleagues give each other when they meet in the break room.
He took a step toward me, cup in hand.
I couldn't move. Not that I didn't want to — my body was nailed to the floor, my legs wouldn't obey.
He stepped past the break room threshold into the hallway, three or four meters away.
Then he walked straight through the wall and vanished.
Not turning a corner, not entering a room. Just passing through the wall. Behind that wall was a row of desks — exactly where Xiao Chen sat.
I stood there, my legs shaking violently.
After a long time — maybe a minute, maybe ten — I slowly walked over to the spot where he'd disappeared.
The wall was white latex paint, cold, just a normal wall.
I turned back to the break room.
The light was off.
The water cooler's green light still blinked, in time with my heartbeat.
I didn't dare stay at the office that night. I packed my things, went downstairs, and sat in a 24-hour convenience store until morning.
The next day, I showed up with heavy dark circles. The first thing I did when I walked in was find Old Zhou.
Old Zhou had been with the company for twelve years. He knew everything. His desk was by the window, lined with succulents, which he watered every noon.
"Old Zhou, can I ask you something?"
Old Zhou looked up. "You look terrible. Pull another all-nighter?"
"No." I lowered my voice. "I wanted to ask… did anyone here ever…"
His face changed before I finished.
"Who told you about this?"
"No one told me." I looked at him. "I just wanted to ask."
Old Zhou was silent for a moment, then set down his spray bottle.
"It happened more than ten years ago." Old Zhou said. "I'd only been here two years. There was a programmer… named… Chen… something Chen…"
"Chen who?"
"Chen Qiming. Yeah, Chen Qiming. Backend developer, really good at his job, just worked way too hard. Back then, the company was rushing a big project. He worked overtime for over a month straight, sleeping only two or three hours a night. One night, also working until midnight, he went to the break room to get water. On his way back to his desk…"
He paused.
"What happened?"
"He dropped dead." Old Zhou said. "Collapsed right next to his desk, still holding his cup. Colleagues found him on the floor the next morning, already cold. That spot…"
He pointed toward the break room.
"Is exactly where Xiao Chen sits now."
I said nothing.
"It caused quite a stir. The company paid compensation, then everyone slowly stopped talking about it." Old Zhou looked at me. "Why are you asking?"
"Nothing." I said. "Just heard someone mention it, curious."
Old Zhou stared at me for a few seconds, then didn't press it. He lowered his head and continued watering the plants, water droplets glistening on the leaves.
"Xiao Lin," he said without looking up. "Some things, you just need to know. Don't keep thinking about them. In this line of work, who isn't trading their life for money?"
I didn't reply.
Back at my desk, I couldn't help glancing at Xiao Chen.
He was typing code, his three cups all full. Every few lines, he picked one up and drank, like water was free.
He looked exhausted. Dark circles heavier than mine, lips dry and chapped, fingers trembling slightly on the keyboard.
I suddenly remembered where the man had vanished — exactly at Xiao Chen's desk.
I stood up and walked over.
"Xiao Chen."
He turned and smiled. "Brother Lin."
That smile made my heart skip. The way he smiled, eyes curved, mouth twitching — exactly like the man last night.
"You… still really thirsty lately?"
"Yeah, worse than before." He rubbed his eyes. "Didn't sleep well again last night. Kept hearing pipes. Whooshing, like someone left the tap running. I wake up thirsty, drink water, but still feel thirsty."
He lifted a cup and drank deeply.
"You can hear pipes from where you live?"
"Yeah, the old neighborhood I rent has terrible soundproofing. When it's quiet at night, I can hear the pipes upstairs. Sometimes it's not even pipes — like last night, I heard footsteps walking back and forth, and the sound of pouring water."
"Pouring water?"
"Yeah, gulping, just like our water cooler in the break room." Xiao Chen laughed. "Probably just a dream."
I didn't respond.
I left work early that afternoon.
I went home and slept, having messy, chaotic dreams. I dreamed of that programmer, Chen Qiming, getting water in the break room, collapsing next to his desk. I dreamed his spirit wandering this floor year after year, waking up at three in the morning to get water.
Then I dreamed of Xiao Chen.
He sat at that desk, three cups in front of him, drinking nonstop. His face grew paler, his lips drier, as if the water he drank was never enough.
"I'm thirsty." He said to me in the dream. "Brother Lin, I'm so thirsty."
I woke up.
It was dark outside. I checked my phone — 11:40 PM.
I lay there staring at the ceiling.
Then I made a decision.
I arrived downstairs at the office at 12:40 AM.
I swiped my card, took the elevator up. The floor was empty, lights on, workstations quiet. The hum of computers, the rush of the air conditioner — everything felt normal.
I sat at my desk, turned on my computer, pulled up the fixed bug, and pretended to work.
Time dragged.
I checked my phone every few minutes. One o'clock. One-twenty. One-forty. Two. Two-twenty. Two-forty.
Two-fifty.
I stood up, walked into the hallway, and stood where I could see the break room.
Two-fifty-five.
The break room light was still off. Door closed, glass reflecting neon from outside.
Two-fifty-eight.
Two-fifty-nine.
Three o'clock sharp.
The break room door opened.
No warning, no sound. It just creaked open a crack, then slowly swung wide enough for someone to pass through.
The light didn't turn on.
Inside, complete darkness.
Then footsteps.
From inside the break room, soft, step by step, walking out.
The figure appeared in the doorway.
The same man. Wearing the old uniform, holding the white ceramic cup, face ashen, eyes fixed on his cup.
He walked to the water cooler and stopped.
The machine started making noise. Gulp, gulp. Hot water flowed into his cup, steam rising, partially covering his face.
He stood motionless.
I stood in the hallway, motionless too.
Seconds passed. I counted my heartbeats: thump, thump, thump.
The cup was full.
He turned off the tap and turned around.
This time, he saw me.
He looked at me, and I looked at him. His eyes were the same as before — no malice, no anger, just a little curious, a little confused. Like two colleagues meeting late at night, wondering why the other was also there.
Then he smiled.
Still that ordinary, coworker smile.
He lifted his cup and gestured toward me.
I understood — you getting water too?
I tried to say something, but my throat was blocked, no sound coming out.
He waited a few seconds, then shrugged.
He turned and kept walking. As he passed me, I smelled a faint odor — like clothes that hadn't seen sunlight in years, like a basement, like dust accumulated over decades in an old house.
He stopped next to Xiao Chen's desk.
He looked down at the workstation, at the three cups, at Xiao Chen's jacket draped over the chair.
He stood there for a long time.
Then he vanished.
Not suddenly fading, but slowly disappearing, like an old photograph losing color, bit by bit, layer by layer, until nothing remained.
I was alone in the hallway.
My legs felt weak.
After a long while, I slowly walked over to Xiao Chen's desk.
It looked normal. Three cups full of water, screen off, keyboard dusted. A dark blue jacket — the current company uniform — draped over the chair.
I stood where the man had stood, staring at the desk.
A question suddenly hit me.
Why had he stood there so long?
What was he looking at?
I remembered what Old Zhou said — he'd collapsed right next to his desk, cup in hand.
This desk had been his, more than ten years ago.
Now someone else sat here.
I turned to leave, then glanced at Xiao Chen's monitor. Stuck near the bottom was a sticky note.
It said:
Don't forget to drink water. — Mom
I stared at it for a few seconds, then left the office.
Over the next few days, I kept an eye on Xiao Chen.
He grew more and more tired. He showed up every day with heavy dark circles, chapped lips, sometimes trembling fingers. Still three cups on his desk, drinking constantly. But no matter how much he drank, he remained thirsty.
"Brother Lin," he said at lunch one day, sitting next to me with his lunch box. "Do you think people can get thirstier the more they drink?"
"What do you mean?"
"I've been drinking so much water lately, but my mouth is always dry. I feel fine for a few minutes, then it's drier than before. Do you think I'm sick or something?"
I looked at him.
His eyes were clear, like any young graduate, full of hope for the future, passion for the job. He had no idea that, more than ten years ago, someone had sat where he was now, working overtime for months, collapsing and never getting up.
No idea that someone came back every night to stand behind him.
No idea that man had once been just like him — young, hardworking, thinking he had all the time in the world.
"Go get a checkup." I said. "See an endocrinologist, check your blood sugar."
"Yeah, I'll go this weekend." He nodded and continued eating.
He looked up halfway through.
"Brother Lin, do people ever work late here at night?"
My heart skipped. "Why do you ask?"
"I just… I feel like someone's watching me lately." He laughed, a little embarrassed. "When I work overtime at night, even though I'm alone, I feel eyes on my back. I turn around, nothing's there."
"Probably just tired."
"Maybe." He lowered his head. "Last night, I left at midnight and passed the break room. I heard noises inside. Gulping, like someone getting water. I peeked in — no one."
Before I could reply, he went on. "I panicked and ran. My legs were weak on the way down."
"What happened after?"
"After?" He thought. "I went home to sleep, but heard pipes again. Whooshing, nonstop until morning."
He didn't say anything else.
I stayed late that night.
Not working. Waiting.
I waited until 2:50 AM, then stood in the hallway next to the break room.
At three o'clock exactly, the door opened.
The man walked out, cup in hand, to the water cooler. Gulp, gulp. Hot water filled the cup, steam rising.
He finished, turned, and saw me.
This time, he didn't smile.
There was something different in his eyes. Not curiosity, not confusion — something hard to name. Like a plea. Like a warning.
He walked toward Xiao Chen's desk.
Stood beside it, looked down at the chair, at the three cups.
Then he looked up at me.
He pointed at Xiao Chen's chair.
Then at himself.
Then at me.
I understood the gesture.
He's sitting in my spot. Do you understand?
I stood there, not knowing what to say.
He watched me for a moment, then turned to face the wall.
He raised his hand and pressed it against the surface.
There was nothing there. Just ordinary white paint, cold and hard.
But he pressed it like he was touching something.
He turned and looked at me again.
This time, his gaze was clear.
He was saying:
There's someone down there.
Then he vanished.
I stood in the hallway, staring at the wall for a long time.
Behind the wall was Xiao Chen's desk. Where he sat every day, typing code, drinking water, unaware of what was on the other side, unaware someone watched him every night.
But the man knew.
Chen Qiming, the programmer who died twelve years ago right here. After he died, he came back every night to get water, to drink, to stand and watch his old desk.
He watched young people sit there, work overtime, burn out, and leave. Some quit. Some switched jobs. Some, like him, collapsed and never rose again.
He couldn't do anything.
Just stand there. Forever.
Three days later, Xiao Chen didn't come to work.
Our team leader called, got no answer, and asked me to check on him. I took his registered address from his employment form and headed over.
An old neighborhood, six stories, no elevator. Xiao Chen lived on the fourth floor.
I knocked. No answer.
A faint smell drifted through the crack in the door — like unwashed clothes, like a basement, like dust accumulated over years.
Exactly the same smell as the man.
I stood there and whispered softly:
"Thank you for saving him."
Footsteps faded away in the stairwell.
Someone's always getting water.
Some people, even when their bodies are gone, their habits remain.