My metal cart glides silently across the navy carpet on the thirty-second floor. Its rubber wheels are specially designed not to slice through the quiet—much like my presence in this building: existing, yet carefully arranged not to disturb the view.
The sharp scent of glass cleaner stings my nose, colliding with the faint lingering trace of bakhour drifting from the CEO's office. The air conditioning hums softly, holding the temperature at twenty-one degrees—a stark contrast to the mirage of heat dancing over the asphalt of Sheikh Zayed Road beyond the glass.
I glance at the cheap digital watch on my wrist. 15:15. Here, time is an expensive straight line. Back in my village, Asr was marked by the sound of children running toward the small mosque; here, Asr is the shifting shadow of the Burj building slowly swallowing the streets below.
My chest tightens every time the clock approaches this hour—a reflex from the garment factory in my hometown, where stopping for even a minute meant losing part of the incentive pay. I am still not used to a silence that treats one like a human being.
"Sari, khallas?" a deep voice startles me.
I turn quickly. Mr. Khalid stands at the doorway of the meeting room, his white shirt stiff with starch, his fingers rolling a small olive-wood tasbih.
"This long table is the last one, Sir," I reply, lowering my gaze as my hand instinctively presses the microfiber cloth harder against the marble surface.
"Five more minutes and everything will be clean."
Mr. Khalid does not move. Instead, he places his smartphone on the table I have just wiped. I catch the expensive scent of oud from him—a smell that, for us migrant workers, means authority.
"Why the hurry?" he asks flatly, his eyes observing dust particles floating in the late afternoon light.
"Schedule, Sir. I need to move to the thirtieth floor before four," I answer, forcing a professional smile though my knees ache slightly.
He pulls out a leather chair and sits. An unusual gesture. In my head, I immediately picture the WhatsApp group "Dirham Warriors"—they would never believe it if I told them the big boss invited me to talk during peak hours. Usually, we are treated like movable furniture.
"Sit for a moment, Sari. Out there, the machines never stop turning—but you are not a machine." He gestures toward the chair across from him.
I freeze. The cold air suddenly feels sharper against my skin. Guilt arrives uninvited—like stealing something that was never mine.
"But I'm on duty, Sir. If the Supervisor—"
"Your supervisor is praying as well," he interrupts calmly.
"In this office," he continues softly,
"we pause for a moment at times like this. The work will not run away. The people must be taken care of."
I finally sit at the edge of the chair, my body rigid. The aroma of gahwa coffee his secretary brought this morning still lingers in the room. A strange relief creeps into my chest, like a spring compressed for years slowly being allowed to extend again.
"Thank you, Sir," I say quietly.
"It's been a long time since I sat down at this hour," I whisper honestly.
Mr. Khalid gives a small smile—the kind that only appears at the corner of the mouth.
"In Dubai," he says while adjusting his ghutra,
"we often run too fast. Sometimes we need to be reminded to slow down."
He stands, straightening his ghutra in the mirror. The soft sound of the adhan begins to flow from a small speaker in the ceiling corner—a call that does not shout, but seeps in.
"Take ten minutes. Drink some water. The world will not collapse just because you stop wiping tables," he says before walking toward the prayer room at the end of the corridor.
I am left alone in that vast room. I do not pray there—I have my own place near the emergency stairs—but I follow his instruction.
I sit still. My hands, usually quick to hide the detergent burns, now rest quietly on my knees. Behind this bulletproof glass, Dubai no longer looks like a pile of concrete I must scrub free of dust.
It looks like a space that grants me permission to simply be human.
These ten minutes are not about a delayed schedule, but about the fact that Mr. Khalid said my name—Sari—not as part of the building's inventory, but as someone worthy of stopping.
—End—