The utility room corner smells faintly of sweet packing tape and stale fluorescent air. From a low angle, the cardboard return bin sits, its slightly warped corner perpetually straightened by the weight of the room’s need for order. A hand smooths the top lip, brushing away the fine film of dust that collects there. Inside, the contents are a perfect, unsorted collection of small plastic price tags and miscellaneous items—always exactly fourteen. It doesn't matter if the day brought twenty returns or just two; the count resets, the arrangement holds, and the bin remains precisely full. The items are never examined, only straightened, waiting for the next cycle of perfect, domestic inventory.
hum · uneasy