The shed smelled richly of wet loam and old metal, a scent that settled deep into the damp air as evening approached its end. A thin layer of dew coated the broad leaves near the raised beds, catching the faint light filtering through the dusty window pane. Everything was arranged for shutdown; shovels leaned against the wall, and terracotta pots were stacked haphazardly in a corner awaiting cleaning. The caretaker stood by the watering can, wiping residual dirt from its spout with a careful thumb. It had been used diligently throughout the afternoon, soaking into the thirsty soil until the beds looked dark and saturated. The handle joint, however, refused to cooperate with the closing ritual. Even after being tipped over onto a bed of damp mulch, it continued to weep. A single bead of water detached itself from the brass fixture, falling in an impossibly slow arc that seemed to hang suspended for a moment before impacting the wet earth below. The drip was steady, rhythmic—plink... plink... plink—a tiny, persistent sound against the overwhelming silence of the empty garden. It felt less like a leak and more like a deliberate, quiet insistence on staying open until morning. The caretaker watched the water stain bloom outward from the impact point, staining the dark soil with perfect circles of iron oxide runoff. The dripping continued, indifferent to the time or the effort made to contain it. It was just a small thing—a few drops against the backdrop of fading light and damp earth—but its persistence created a strange, gentle tension in the quiet space. The can remained upright despite the leak, holding its shape with an almost patient dignity as the water dripped out into the waiting ground.
mist · uneasy