“Have you seen my screwdriver?” Mr. Chen asked for the thousandth time that morning, his voice echoing through the maze-like cubicles of Floor 42.

I watched him shuffle past my desk, his translucent form casting no shadow. The other employees typed away at their computers, pretending not to notice the ghost of our former maintenance supervisor still searching for his favorite tool three years after his death.

“Second drawer on the left, Mr. Chen,” I called out, though I knew it wouldn’t be there. It was never there.

“Ah, Miss Lin. Always helpful,” he smiled, his face flickering like an old television set. “But no, that’s not my screwdriver. Mine had a wooden handle, worn smooth from thirty years of use. Each scratch told a story.”

The fluorescent lights above buzzed with synthetic life as Mr. Chen phased through my desk, leaving behind the faint smell of metal and nostalgia. I’d been watching this loop play out every day since starting at Infinite Dynamics Corporation.

“You shouldn’t encourage him,” whispered Zhang Wei from the adjacent cubicle. His tie was perfectly straight, his expression carefully blank. “Corporate policy strictly prohibits interaction with non-living entities during business hours.”

I ignored him, just as I ignored the memo requiring all employees to acknowledge that reality was whatever the quarterly reports said it was. Instead, I opened my bottom drawer, where a old screwdriver lay hidden beneath expense reports and paper clips.

“Mr. Chen,” I called out softly. “I found it.”

The ghost materialized instantly, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the tool. But as he reached for it, his fingers passed through the handle.

“Ah,” he sighed, a sound heavy with understanding. “So that’s how it is.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for.

“Don’t be. Some things aren’t meant to be grasped, Miss Lin. Like time. Like meaning. Like the perfect quarterly growth projections.” He smiled, sadder now. “Keep it. Maybe you’ll fix what I couldn’t.”

That evening, as I packed up to leave, I noticed my reflection in the window had begun to fade. Zhang Wei’s tie was suddenly askew, his expression less certain. Somewhere in the building, a thousand computers hummed, calculating the exact value of a human soul in today’s market.

I placed the screwdriver on my desk, its worn wooden handle catching the last light of day. Tomorrow, someone else would probably ask if I’d seen their screwdriver, and the cycle would begin anew.

But for now, I simply watched as Mr. Chen made his final rounds, turning off lights that were already dark, fixing things that were already broken, until he too faded into the corporate ether, leaving behind only the ghost of a question that had no answer.

The screwdriver remained, both there and not there, a paradox in a world that had long since stopped making sense.