Chapter 3: The Uniform That Would Not Dry
The first thing I felt when I stood was the cold.
It came through the soles of my stockings and climbed into my knees. The bedroom carpet looked soft enough to sink into, but the polished floor beneath it had held the night’s chill. I gripped the edge of the mattress until the room stopped tilting. Behind me, the charcoal duvet settled back into place, hiding the hollow my body had made.
Gunther remained near the door, a dark shape cut against the weaker light from the service hall. He had not called anyone. That was the only reason I was still standing there instead of being watched by someone else.
“My shoes,” I said.
My voice sounded scraped thin. I crossed the room slowly, one hand trailing along the bed frame. The black shoes waited beside the nightstand exactly where I had left them, their rubber soles dusted with pale grit. One heel had folded inward. I picked it up and nearly dropped it when my fingers failed to close.
Gunther noticed.
He did not move toward me. He only watched while I sat on the edge of the carpet and forced my foot into the shoe. The inside was damp. So were my socks.
I pulled the second shoe on and tied the laces twice. The knot slipped loose anyway.
“You should sit down,” he said.
“I have work.”
The words came out before I could stop them. They were easier than an explanation.
I pushed myself upright. The apron twisted around my waist, its corner caught under the gray uniform’s waistband. One side had dried stiff against my hip. I remembered the cleaning solution splashing there, then remembered wiping it with the same rag I had used on the floor. The memory ended in a blank space.
Gunther’s eyes moved over me with the precision of an inspection. The smudge on my cheek. The wrinkle pressed into my sleeve. The white crust along one cuff. The apron bunched at my waist. He looked at my hands last. The skin around my knuckles was red and cracked, and a faint chemical shine still clung beneath my nails.
“You kept working after you got tired,” he said.
I tucked my hands behind me. “I’m late.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
I reached for the door.
The service area beyond it smelled of linen, hot metal, and the sharp lemon scent of polish. A narrow counter ran beneath a row of cabinets. On it sat a clipboard, a ring of keys, and a small digital clock blinking 5:42. The light above the counter flickered once before holding steady.
A sheet of paper lay beneath the clipboard. I recognized my handwriting in the first line.
Bedroom reset. Final inspection before morning handoff.
The box beside it was empty.
My stomach tightened. I had been supposed to return the completed checklist before the handoff. I had no memory of doing it. The morning staff—or whoever was waiting for the room—would already be looking for that paper.
Gunther came into the service area behind me. He picked up the checklist without touching the wet-looking corner.
“You missed it,” he said.
“I can finish.”
“You can barely stand.”
I took the clipboard from him. “If I don’t, someone else will.”
That was the part I could not say aloud: someone else would mark the failure beside my name, and the mark would follow me farther than this room. My hours could disappear. My pay could be held. A mistake made while exhausted would still look deliberate on paper.
I turned toward the supply closet. The hallway stretched too long ahead of me, bright and empty. At the far end, a cart waited with folded sheets stacked high. One of the wheels pointed crookedly, as if it had been abandoned in a hurry.
Gunther caught the clipboard before it fell from my hand.
“Ten minutes,” he said. “You rest here. Then you tell me what can be finished safely.”
I stared at him.
It was not kindness. He still had the bed, the shoes, the checklist, and the fact that I had crossed a boundary no one had invited me across. He could report me whenever he chose. But he was offering time, and time was the one thing I had been unable to keep.
“I don’t need—”
“Ten minutes.”
I looked toward the bedroom. The open door framed the massive bed, dark and undisturbed now. My face had left no visible trace on the pillows. Only Gunther knew where to look.
I sat on the narrow bench beside the service counter, keeping the clipboard on my knees. The uniform beneath me was still damp at the waist. It would not dry before I had to move.
Gunther placed the completed?—no, the unfinished checklist beside him and kept the bedroom key in his hand.
May you like
“After ten minutes,” he said, “you’re going to account for the handoff.”
I closed my eyes, but I did not sleep. Somewhere beyond the service hall, a door latch lifted. Footsteps approached, measured and unhurried, while Gunther stood between them and me.
