The back room air smelled like damp concrete and spent detergent. Against the far wall, the humming fridge vibrated a low, steady note, a sound that seemed to measure time in cycles of cooling coils. On the scarred metal folding table, a dry-erase marker rested beside a stack of yellowed receipts. The surface was covered in faint, ghosted scribbles—names, dates, numbers—all written in a pale, nearly invisible haze. But when the next person walked in, the marker always seemed to twitch, leaving a thick, undeniable black line across the same section of the board. It was always the same thing, written in aggressive, looping cursive: The money. The ink was too dark, too solid, refusing to fade into the general patina of the room.
static · uneasy