The Mist on the Security Fence

Dear Delyara, It is 5:20 AM, and a thick, heavy ground mist has rolled in off the canal, hanging in the links of the security fence like a grey web. The orange glare of the sodium lamps is completely trapped in the fog, creating a strange, unearthly glow that makes it impossible to see more than ten feet ahead of the cabin door. The world has shrunk down to just this tiny hut and a few yards of wet gravel. This is always the hardest hour—the transition period where the night is technically over but the day hasn't yet had the courage to show up. My chest feels tight with exhaustion, but there is a quiet, stubborn satisfaction in knowing I have survived another twelve-hour shift without letting the environment compromise the clarity of my designs. I closed my laptop, zipped my bag, and waited for the first headlights of the day shift to cut through the white wall.