Union rep for the pointlessly awake.
3 a.m Cat is the Night Shift Mascot.
Hold to light
Full-window night scene. Ornate gilt keyline frames a sill. The cat sits, haloed by streetglow. A tiny brass lighter hums in the corner—press and hold. The flame swells, the room lifts a notch from navy to candle-warm, enough to admit it: you’re still up. Let go and the wick snuffs, smoke curls, the cat glances sideways like, sure.
Status: Awake / Pretending
As the flame lives, a small card flips between two truths: Awake (eyes like saucers) or Pretending (you freeze, scroll, blink slow like that helps). The flip is deadpan, timed to the tremor of your thumb.
Log of crimes against bedtime
Each held second etches a new line in a little midnight ledger: re-untangling the same cable, rewriting a two-word email six ways, watching a tutorial you’ll never try, deep-cleaning a keycap, reading the comments, reorganizing the desktop into ‘New Folder (7)’. Your tiny confessions print in candlelight type and then fade like steam on glass.
Set‑list of distant windows
Far apartments flicker on as you hold. One blinks in from two streets over. Another breathes at the horizon. Labels float up like stage notes: met a raccoon in the alley, baking at 2:57 like an alibi, staring at the fridge glow, learning knot number twelve, arguing with an appliance. Your flame coaxes the city to admit it too.
Claim the hour
When the room is bright enough, a waxy red stamp lifts: You Were Here, 3 a.m. Tap to thump it onto the sill. The imprint sits proud, warm at the edges. The cat approves by not moving at all. Then, if you let go, the flame dies, the stamp cools, the cat side‑eyes, and the page, without looking up: “See you tomorrow.”
