He’s 63 years old, stands with the posture of a former athlete, and has a mustache that bends like it's hiding a smile.
Mika works the night shift. From 9 p.m. to 6 a.m.
Alone, surrounded by cargo and silence.
A camera watches him, but he pays it no mind — he knows no one’s really watching.
For the first two hours, he does the usual rounds. Signs the logbook, checks the locks. Then he brews coffee from a thermos and sits by the radio.
And that’s when it begins — the part no one knows.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Mika dances.
Not in any dramatic, cinematic way.
No pirouettes. No theatrics.
Just a slow shift of the feet, a roll of the shoulders, a quiet sway of the head to music playing low.
Sometimes with headphones, sometimes with closed eyes.
Every movement has weight — and lightness.
As if each step brushes off a layer of worry from the soul.
Sometimes it’s Zdravko ?oli?. Sometimes just an instrumental.
But the rhythm is always the same — his.
Not for an audience. Not to impress.
But to endure.
Mika says he used to dance at weddings.
He was "the one who got the aunts on the floor."
He loved music more than he loved himself.
Then life arrived — kids, responsibilities, the warehouse job.
But the dance didn’t leave.
It just moved — into the night.
Once, the camera caught him.
The next day, the supervisor joked:
“Mika, guarding both the goods and the groove, huh?”
Mika laughed and said:
“As long as my legs can move, this warehouse is my stage.”