Mid-shift cleaning routine in the utility sink alcove began with the usual list of checks. A slow drip from the faucet provided a steady, rhythmic sound against the wet porcelain lip of the basin. Dust settled on everything here—a fine film coating the cage wire and the unused packet of birdseed resting beside it. The small feeder was tilted slightly forward, its base joint catching the low light filtering through the high windows. It sat on the slick counter surface, smelling faintly of damp concrete and old chlorine. I noted that the seed tray held exactly three sunflower seeds. This observation had become a habit during closing time cleanup; they always appeared in groups of three, regardless of how many times the station was used or when it was last filled. I reached out to straighten the cage feeder, careful not to disturb the wet film on the counter. As my fingers brushed the metal base joint, the whole arrangement seemed to subtly shift—a barely perceptible correction by the room itself. I watched as the tilt righted instantly, and the three seeds remained perfectly in place within the tray. The drip from the faucet continued its steady beat, marking time against the wet stone. It was a small thing, this feeder, but it held something persistent, an arrangement that refused to change even when everything else around it seemed ready for deep cleaning or total shutdown.
mist · watchful