The Condensation on the Security Glass

Dear Delyara, The clock on the wall reads 2:45 AM, and my breath is forming a thick, cloudy mist on the internal security window every time I lean forward to check the perimeter feeds. The small electric heater under the desk is struggling against the chill coming off the concrete floor, leaving the air damp and sharp. I can hear the rain starting to pick up outside, hitting the metal roof like a scattering of small coins. There is a strange, heavy isolation in watching a world that is completely fast asleep. It makes you feel like a ghost, a silent observer holding a clipboard while everyone else gets to live out their lives in the warmth. I wiped the glass clean with my sleeve and stared into the dark yard, waiting for the hours to pull me closer to the dawn.