The terracotta pot sits near the corner where the linoleum meets the carpet seam. Dust settles lightly on the vinyl armrest of the chair across the way, undisturbed by foot traffic. It is late afternoon, and the light streaming through the window catches a wet spot on the floor tiles, reflecting the dust motes floating above it. The small potted fern usually sits straight, but today its base seems to have shifted slightly toward the reception door. The pot rim rests just inches from the damp carpet edge. One particular leaf has tilted out of the cluster, pointing directly through the glass pane and into the curb outside. It is a slow adjustment; an imperceptible lean that suggests something pulling it outward. The earth in the pot smells faintly wet, like moss after a sudden rain.
glow · uneasy