Near closing time, the service corridor held a yellow sodium light that struggled against the deepening dusk. Dust motes drifted in visible columns between the concrete pillars and the small potted bird feeder plant tucked into a corner recess. I knelt low to check the base plate where the cleaning supplies were stacked—a bucket of rags, an empty canister of disinfectant, and several discarded plastic bottles. The soil around the feeder's base was damp, having pooled slightly from some slow drip that ran down the terracotta lip. My job was simple: sweep up any debris left by the day’s rush, ensuring nothing lingered against the yellow-painted wall. I noticed a faint smear of something dark and organic on the concrete just beside the plant pot—a small trace, perhaps bird droppings or old grime, easily overlooked in the general dust layer. Tucked beneath a stack of used gloves was an industrial dry-erase marker, its cap slightly askew. It felt heavy and cool against my palm, unused for days. I lifted it up to examine the plastic casing; there were no visible scuffs, only the faint residue lines typical of tools left in damp environments. The page—the small piece of cardboard taped near the feeder’s base plate—was blank save for a single, unsettling smudge right at its center point. It was as if something had been written here with extreme pressure and then wiped away almost completely. I ran my thumb over the residue, feeling the grit beneath the surface layer. The marker itself seemed to hum slightly in the yellow light. When I pressed the tip against the cardboard again, it did not write a standard inventory number or station code; instead, the faint ink bloomed into a single, undeniable phrase: The thing we agreed never to mention. It was written with an almost desperate urgency that defied the marker's own casual function, leaving me kneeling there in the yellow glow of the corridor.
glow · uneasy