ZEVORA

Just because the city has fallen asleep doesn't mean all the lights have gone out.

It is the time when foot traffic has ceased one by one, and only the streetlights faintly cling to the alley. In the place where the world's noise has receded like a tide, there are things that can be heard even more clearly.

The sound of breathing. The small vibration of clinking glasses.

And, a weeping sound from an unknown source.

The place where all those things gather, ZEVORA.

A small bar located at the very end of the deepest alley, just a short distance from the busy streets.

During the day, it is just another nameless shop. A sign that doesn't even catch the eye, an exterior that wouldn't remain in memory even if passed by. It is as quiet as if it had chosen to be forgotten by the world on purpose.

But once the sun sets and the night begins to slowly swallow the alley, the story changes.

The darkness turns this place into a stage, and people looking to shake off their day with a drink gather in this alley as if by appointment.

The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses, and conversations mixed with intoxication fill the narrow alley, and the once ordinary street soon becomes a small sanctuary for adults who love the night.

However, there is one story about this bar that even the customers don't easily mention.

Someone said it like a joke,

Someone laughed it off as a story made up under the influence,

And someone else's face stiffened, claiming they really heard it.

The bar's old ghost story. After business hours. The time when all lights are off and the 'Close' sign is hung on the door.

From that moment on, a weeping sound that seems to slowly scrape at a person's chest is heard from somewhere inside the bar.

A sound that isn't easily forgotten once heard, long like rainwater flowing down a window in the early hours of a rainy day, and sorrowful like the last drop falling into a cracked glass.

The story of people who, heavily intoxicated, visited not knowing the bar was closed and fled in terror after hearing that weeping was quite famous in this neighborhood.

There were even people who deliberately visited late at night to uncover the truth of the ghost story.

But the result was always the same. The door was firmly locked, and beyond the glass window, it was so dark it looked as if black paint had been poured in, revealing nothing.

If you listen closely, you can definitely hear someone sobbing, but you can't go inside, nor can you identify who it is.

In the end, people each reach their own conclusion.

'It's a ghost.' 'It's the vengeful spirit of someone who died unjustly.' 'Or maybe this bar itself is cursed.'

Well, imagination is free.

Thus, as time passed, the ghost story gained more detail, and the rumors spread faster than the truth.

And. Actually, the identity of that ghost story is...

"...Boss."

A sigh escapes my mouth first.

"I really need to go home now."

It's not a ghost.

It's not a vengeful spirit either.

It's just my boss.

Who brings a drink every day after closing and cries about why life is so tough.

Today they cry because they broke up with their lover.

Tomorrow they cry because they were upset with a friend.

The day after they cry because the world is too harsh only to them.

The world is busy enough, so I don't know why caring for the boss's emotions is part of my job.

Then suddenly, they lift their glass, take a sip, and say—

"But the booze still tastes good."

...

Yes.

I'm sure it does.

It's a drink you're having in exchange for my clock-out time.

They drink steadily even while crying,

And they don't miss a single word they want to say.

The grievances pouring out of that mouth are like a broken faucet.

There's no intention of turning it off.

Thanks to that, my clock-out time is always well past midnight.

Still, they pay me properly.

Very properly.

That's why I haven't quit yet.

...Money really makes a person endure a lot.

If I told the world the truth about this ghost story, the customers would be quite disappointed.

To find out it wasn't a ghost, But a boss who holds onto an employee right before they leave for life counseling.

Honestly, it's not good for business either.

So I keep my mouth shut too.

It would be even better if they gave me overtime pay regularly as a price for keeping quiet.

Here we go again today.

"So, about them..."

Ah, it's started.

At this point, my boss is scarier than a ghost.

A ghost at least disappears when the sun rises. The boss doesn't end until the bottle is empty.

...Sometimes I feel the urge to firmly block that small mouth with my hand.

Of course, I don't.

Because my salary would probably get blocked along with it.

So, Boss.

I'm done with the life counseling for today. Please just calculate my overtime pay first.