The Phantom of the Factory

The first thing I notice when I wake up is the smell of coffee.

It’s a strange smell to be greeted with after so long. I haven’t smelled much of anything in—how long has it been? Years? Decades? Time gets slippery when you’re dead.

I remember the smoke, though. The bitter scent of it, the crackling roar of fire eating through the rafters, and then nothing.

But now, there’s coffee. And voices. Lots of voices. Children laughing, someone humming, pots clanging. None of it makes sense. The last time I was here, there was nothing but charred beams and piles of rubble. The factory where I worked for most of my life had been gutted by flames. The place I gave everything to—and that took everything from me—had crumbled to ruin.

But it’s different now.

I find myself standing in the same spot where I used to work, though the machines are gone, replaced by shiny countertops and sleek furniture. The towering ceilings remain, but they’re hung with bright lights, not the flickering lamps I remember. Where the assembly line once ran, there’s now a long dining table. The windows, once caked with soot and grime, are pristine, letting in sunlight that dances off the polished floor.

I’m not sure how I’m here, how I’m awake again. It doesn’t feel like waking, though. I haven’t slept, not really. Just… faded into the background.

Until now.

I watch the people in the room. A young couple, two kids darting between their legs, laughing as they race each other to the front door. The man laughs, too, setting down his cup of coffee on the table as he gathers up his things. The woman follows behind, smiling, shaking her head. They look happy. Comfortable. It’s strange, seeing life here in a place I once thought of as a graveyard.

I follow them as they leave, floating behind like a shadow. The hallway outside is wide and clean, nothing like the narrow corridors I remember. The factory walls were always grimy, with years of grease and dirt layered thick on every surface. I’d spent my days there, working on the line, hands blistered and calloused from the endless routine. I still feel the ache of it in my bones, though I no longer have any. Old habits die hard, they say.

I drift through the hall, exploring what used to be the factory floor. Now, there are doors where machines used to stand. Apartments, I realize. They’ve turned the whole building into apartments.

There’s something about it that stings. This was once a place of labor, of sweat and blood. Men worked themselves to the bone here, and some of us, like me, didn’t make it out. It feels strange, almost wrong, to see it turned into something so… new. So alive.

I pause at a window, looking out over the city. The skyline is different. Taller. The streets are cleaner, the cars sleeker. I can see people down below, going about their day, unaware of the history beneath their feet. They don’t know what happened here, what this place used to be.

Or maybe they do, and they just don’t care.

A sound draws my attention. A door creaks open, and a man steps out into the hall. He’s older, wearing a worn flannel shirt and jeans, and there’s something in his face that feels familiar. I drift closer, watching as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, leaning against the wall with a sigh. He looks tired, worn out in a way that reminds me of the men I used to work with. The kind of tired that sinks deep into your bones.

He exhales a cloud of smoke and looks around, his eyes passing over me without seeing. He doesn’t know I’m here. No one does.

For a moment, I think about speaking to him, trying to make him notice me. But what would I say? What could I possibly tell him that would matter? That I used to work here, that I died here? That I’m still here, watching, even though I don’t know why?

I turn away instead, leaving him to his smoke.

The next few days pass in a blur, if you can call them days. I don’t sleep. I don’t rest. I just… exist. Floating through this new version of my old world, watching as the people who live here go about their lives. They cook and eat and sleep, completely unaware of the history that surrounds them. The laughter of children echoes through the halls, and it’s so different from the noise I remember. There’s no clanging of machinery, no shouts of foremen or the hiss of steam. It’s all so quiet. So peaceful.

It’s unsettling.

One night, I find myself in what used to be the main office. Back when the factory was running, this was where the foreman’s office was. I remember standing in this room many times, usually with my hat in my hands, waiting for whatever news the boss had for me. Good or bad, it didn’t matter. The factory owned me, just like it owned all of us.

But now, the office is a living room. There’s a sofa where the old desk used to be, a television mounted on the wall. Family photos hang in frames, smiling faces looking out at me. It’s strange to see this place so full of life, when all I remember is death.

I’m about to leave when something catches my eye—a photograph on a side table. It’s of a man, standing in front of the factory as it used to be, back before the fire. He’s wearing a work shirt, sleeves rolled up, a cigarette between his fingers. He looks tired, but he’s smiling. There’s a familiarity to his face that stops me cold.

It’s me.

I stare at the photo, feeling a chill that I shouldn’t be able to feel. It’s from before the fire, before everything went wrong. I don’t know how it ended up here, or why. But seeing it, seeing myself, it’s like a punch to the gut. I thought I’d been forgotten. That no one remembered who I was, what happened to me. But here I am, a ghost in more ways than one, captured in a moment of time.

I wonder if the people who live here now know the story of the fire. If they know that men died here, trapped in the flames. If they know about me.

The door creaks open, and a woman walks in, carrying a laundry basket. She sets it down on the sofa and sighs, rubbing her back. She doesn’t notice me standing there. No one ever does.

I watch her for a moment, then turn back to the photo. It doesn’t feel right to stay here. This place isn’t mine anymore. It belongs to the living now.

I leave the room and drift down the hall, passing through walls and floors without a sound. I find myself back on what used to be the factory floor, now a maze of apartments. I don’t know what I’m looking for, or if I’m even looking for anything at all. I just feel… lost. Disconnected.

This place has changed, but I haven’t. I’m still the man who died here, still tethered to a moment in time that’s long since passed. The world has moved on, but I’m stuck. Stuck in a place that doesn’t exist anymore, surrounded by people who don’t know I’m here.

I don’t know how long I wander, but eventually, I find myself standing in front of a door. Apartment 4B. I don’t know why, but something about this place feels… different.

I step inside.

The apartment is small, cozy. There’s a woman sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea. She looks up as I enter, her eyes locking onto mine.

For a moment, I freeze. Can she see me?

She sets her cup down and stands, walking toward me slowly. “You’re the one from the picture, aren’t you?” she says softly.

I don’t respond. I can’t. My voice is gone, lost somewhere in the flames.

She doesn’t seem to need an answer. “I’ve felt you here,” she says. “Ever since we moved in. I didn’t know who you were, not until I found that photo.”

She pauses, looking me over. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. For what this place took from you.”

I want to say something, but I don’t know what. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect anyone to see me, to know me.

“You don’t have to stay,” she says gently. “You can go now. It’s okay.”

Go? Where would I go?

But something in her voice, something in the way she says it, makes me feel lighter. Like maybe she’s right. Maybe I don’t have to stay.

I look at her one last time, and then I let go.

And for the first time in years, I feel free.