Hey, can I tell you something? Something that happened… at the Mos Burger in Shiba Park. Tonight feels like the right time.
I can't say for certain it's true… but apparently this came from a girl who actually worked there. She said she heard it straight from the source, so I think it really did happen.
It was late one night. Past midnight, from what I was told. A young man — early twenties, part-time — was cleaning up alone after closing. No customers, of course. The manager had already gone home. Half the lights were off… and even though Shiba Park is so lively during the day, at that hour there was almost no one on the street outside. The windows were perfectly quiet.
He'd been on shift since morning, apparently. Exhausted. He was pushing the mop on autopilot, just wanting to get home. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale, hazy reflection on the wet floor, and every time that light trembled, his shadow would stretch and shrink beneath him.
That's when he felt it.
Someone watching him.
From the other side of the counter.
Strange, right? There was no one there. So at first he told himself it was nothing — just fatigue, just his mind playing tricks. But the feeling kept growing. Pressing into the middle of his back like a pin being slowly pushed through… that unmistakable sense of being watched.
He couldn't stand it anymore. He turned around.
…No one.
Not behind the counter, not in front of it. Every table wiped down, every chair in place. Nothing. Of course there was nothing — but somehow that made it worse. He'd confirmed it with his own eyes, and still he couldn't feel safe.
He steadied himself and picked the mop back up.
That's when he saw it.
At the end of the counter… a paper cup.
Just sitting there.
Doesn't that seem wrong? The cleaning was nearly finished. He had wiped down that counter himself. Something that should not have been there was there.
He reached out to take it.
…And in that moment.
Right beside his ear. Close enough to feel the breath.
"I'll come again."
A small voice. But perfectly clear. Whether it belonged to a woman or a child… that one thing, he said, he could never quite remember.
He didn't turn around.
His body seemed to already know — that if he turned, he would see something. He kept his eyes forward, left the paper cup untouched, grabbed his things, and walked out of the store.
He found out later — just before pulling down the shutter, after he'd already stepped outside, he noticed.
The paper cup was gone.
Not on the table. Not on the floor. Nowhere.
…You know what "I'll come again" means, don't you. It means she'd been there before. Many times. While no one ever noticed.
The place is still open, by the way. Busy as ever during the day — families eating outside on the terrace, perfectly ordinary.
But late at night, after closing, when someone is alone in there finishing the cleanup…
If there were a single paper cup sitting at the end of the counter.
Would you touch it?
