The warehouse was quiet, like every time he arrived there —at least initially. Like he used to do other times, he began patrolling one of the infinite corridors, checking the ridiculously tall racks on both sides. The gigantic structures were the guardians of a wide variety of chests. Some of them were made out of plastic, other carton paper, steel, wood… Even marble. The different colours, perfectly distributed, made the shelves look like a canvas. Such a complex piece of art would have only been understood by someone as abstract as it was, and that wasn’t his case. For him, it was a beautiful combination of colours —nothing else. But somehow, he felt that the more he visited that place, the clearer the image was becoming. Nowadays, he could even start guessing what it was.

—«It must be a face —he started thinking—. Yeah, that must be it».

            Every two minutes and a half, he used to reach a junction where he could see a boundless number of rows. Right, left, or straight; It didn’t really matter. Unmistakably, he was going to end up in an area that was going to be exactly the same as the one before. He had corroborated it.

—Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, you’ll be the next fucking row —hummed the man.

Left.

As the man began walking the «new» path, he couldn’t avoid observing the same hypnotizing chest pattern; in a certain way calling him. It was true that sometimes he had felt curious about what was inside —and he had had plenty of time to check, believe me—, but at the same time, something ethereal was holding him back. Professionalism? No.

Fear.

That’s what was stopping him from opening one of them, because of the terror it produced him to think what he could find inside. I guess sometimes, it’s easier to ignore the truth and be happy with a blindfold covering your eyes.

He took his eyes off the chests and kept checking the corridor; everything looked fine —as expected. In these evenings there was only one noise he could hear; his footsteps —loud and clear. The din they produced would have made anyone gone mad, but for some reason, not him. Instead, they helped him. Carrying away these nocturnal shifts was tiring —more mentally than physically—, and the conversations he could have with himself could only entertain him for a certain amount of time. Not only that, the more he had inner dialogues, the more he got to know himself, sometimes finding disturbing thoughts that scared him. He didn’t want to think more than he should; he didn’t want to have that overwhelming feeling some people have when they know what’s in their mind is not right. That was why the echo his footsteps produced, was a loneliness remedy. They relaxed him and made him feel someone was talking to him, like if he had a colleague beside.