12/10/2025
𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘 | The Attendance Sheet
“They say numbers don’t lie. But maybe they do—quietly, subtly, in the way they add up wrong when no one’s watching.
Maybe it’s not about the numbers themselves, but about the people who get left out… or those who refuse to stay that way.”
[9:12 PM — Classroom, Second Floor Wing]
October. The kind of cold that slips under your sleeves even when the air isn’t moving.
The campus was nearly empty. Everyone else had gone home after the afternoon exam, except for our review group—me, Michael, Aika, and two others whose names I couldn’t even remember. We had a big departmental test the next day, so our professor let us use the room overnight.
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing slightly, the air smelling faintly of whiteboard markers and cheap instant coffee. The room’s door creaked every time someone entered or left, and that sound had already become part of the silence.
On the desk by the window sat the attendance sheet. We were told to sign it every two hours, just to log who stayed through the night.
I signed first.
“Cruz, Adrian Jerome”
Then Michael signed below me, messy handwriting and all. The others followed.
Everything was fine—quiet, sleepy fine—until the second round of signing.
[10:37 PM — Same Room]
When I went back to the paper at around 10:30 PM, there was one extra name on it.
“SANTOS, A.”
I blinked. No one in our group had that name.
At first, I thought maybe someone dropped by earlier—a friend from another class, maybe someone who borrowed a chair or checked on us. I asked Michael, who was busy scribbling formulas on the board.
“Bro, may dumaan bang iba kanina?”
He looked up, frowning. “Wala, bakit?”
I replied “May pangalan sa sheet na ‘di natin kaklase.”
He shrugged. “Baka typo. Or prank ni Prof.”
I laughed a little. Maybe he was right. I crossed the name out lightly, not wanting to rip the page.
But by 12:47 AM, when I checked again, it was there again… Same handwriting. Same ink. Same name.
[12:47 AM — Same Room]
The lights began to hum louder as the night deepened. Aika was half-asleep by the whiteboard, her notes drooping on her lap. Michael was still scribbling on the board, whispering equations to himself.
“Guys,” I said, holding the clipboard up. “Tingnan niyo ‘to.” They gathered around, bleary-eyed.
“Wala namang nag-sign d’yan kanina ‘di ba?” I asked.
Aika squinted. “Hindi ko kilala ‘yan.”
“Hindi ako ‘yan, bro,” Michael said, raising his hands.
“Maybe prof visited,” one of the others mumbled.
“Baka di natin napansin.”
“Yeah,” I said, but my voice didn’t sound convincing even to me.
We left it alone after that. Tried to laugh it off. But I couldn’t stop glancing at that sheet on the desk. Something about it felt wrong—like it didn’t want to be ignored.
[2:00 AM — Same Room]
By then, the others were gone. Aika had gone home early, claiming she felt dizzy. The other two followed. Only Michael and I stayed behind.
The wind outside howled through the half-open window, scattering papers on the floor. The overhead light flickered, once, twice, then steadied.
I decided to sign the last round early, just to finish it. When I picked up the pen, the paper was already turned to a new page. The paper said:
Attendance Sheet – Final Log
Cruz, Adrian Jerome
SANTOS, A.
My breath hitched. No one had written that. I hadn’t even sat down yet. And there was space below my name, waiting.
“Michael?” I called, my voice shaking slightly.
He turned from the board. “Bakit?”
“Did you touch this?”
“No. Why?”
I handed him the paper. His brows furrowed. “Weird… ‘yung pangalan na ‘to, lumalabas na naman?”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
Then he laughed nervously. “Bro, maybe may multo ka nang kaklase.”
“Not funny.”
He set the clipboard down and stretched. “Relax ka lang. Pagod ka lang siguro. You’ve been staring at that thing all night.”
Maybe he was right. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe my mind was trying to turn boredom into ghosts.
But when I looked back at the paper, there was something new. The name “SANTOS, A.” had a signature beside it now. It matched mine.
[3:47 AM — Classroom Corridors]
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because the next thing I knew, the lights were off. The only glow came from the hallway, faint and pulsing like a heartbeat.
The clock on the wall read 3:47 AM. Michael was gone.
The chairs were all neatly pushed under the tables except one—at the far back of the room. Someone was sitting there.
I couldn’t see their face, just the outline of their shoulders in the dim light.
“Michael?” I called.
No answer.
“Hey, sorry, akala ko—” The chair creaked. The figure tilted its head.
Something cold crawled up my spine. I stepped back slowly until I reached the teacher’s desk. My hands trembled as I grabbed the attendance sheet. There were new signatures now—rows of them, looping and familiar, all the same shaky cursive. Mine.
All signed beside SANTOS, A.
Every. Single. Line.
[4:12 AM — Ground Floor Lobby]
I ran out of the room. My shoes echoed down the corridor, fluorescent lights flickering awake one by one like eyes opening. I didn’t stop until I reached the lobby, panting, gripping the clipboard so hard the edges bent.
I needed to find Michael. I tried calling him, but there was no signal. I checked the group chat. He’d sent one message an hour ago.
Michael: Bro, I’m going home. You locked the door, right?
But the door… was still open when I ran.
[7:35 AM — Same Building, Morning After]
The next morning, I returned to that room with the professor. The janitor said the power went out for a few minutes around 3 AM—nothing unusual.
When we reached the table, the attendance sheet was still there. My name. Michael’s. The others’.
No “SANTOS, A.” No extra name.
Except… The last row was signed, slightly slanted, ink still faintly wet.
SANTOS, A.
Beside it, a signature.
Cruz, Adrian Jerome
But I hadn’t touched the pen since the night before.
[9:02 AM - Lecture Hall]
It’s been three days since that review night. Michael hasn’t answered any of my texts. His seat in class has been empty since then.
Yesterday, during roll call, our professor paused mid-sentence.
“Wait,” she said, squinting at her clipboard “Who’s Santos, A.?” No one answered.
She shrugged, crossed it out, and continued calling names.
I wanted to speak, to explain—but when my name was called, I didn’t raise my hand. Because someone behind me already did.
“Maybe numbers do lie. Maybe every system, every list, every record needs balance someone added… when someone else disappears. Maybe it’s not about who’s missing… But rather who’s next to be counted.”
✍️: Louis Ruedas
💻: Jerome Mendoza
