The overhead light swept across the seasonal goods, catching dust motes that danced above the stacked cardboard boxes. A faint scent of potting soil and stale coffee hung in the air, mingling with the hurried energy of the counter. Affixed to a small, dusty shelf was a laminated tag for the Crimson Vine. The typeface was cheerful, bordered by faded price stickers and the corner of a price guide. The care instructions were straightforward, listing basic watering and light needs, but the final section was personalized. It read: "For [Your Name]: Requires daily exposure to the sound of a specific key turning in a lock, and a minimum of three minutes of direct, uninterrupted silence before 3 PM." The light paused, illuminating the ink slightly, and the name printed below the instructions was clearly legible. You realized the tag hadn't been placed there for general sale.
hum · uneasy