The fluorescent lights hummed a steady, high-pitched note that seemed designed for continuous maintenance cycles. I stood eye-level in the narrow utility closet, looking down into the metal shelving unit where unused tags were stacked. They sat in perfect rows of pale cardboard, labeled with neat little type blocks detailing care instructions for non-existent flora—Ficus, Bromeliad, Amaryllis. The arrangement was meticulous; every tag aligned flush against its neighbor, held in place by the sheer pressure of catalog order. Above, a pipe leaked slowly, dripping a rhythmic patter onto the metal lip of the shelf below. This steady drip provided the only counterpoint to the constant hum and the faint scent of wet cardboard dust that permeated the air. I ran my fingers along the dusty edge of the shelf; there was a slight smudge here, an ink residue dried into the metal surface where someone had leaned too heavily moments ago. Most tags followed the expected format: Requires full sun, Water weekly. They were all about growth and external needs. But on the top row, nestled slightly askew, sat one tag that did not belong to a plant. It was labeled 'Handler' instead of any species name. The instructions printed beneath it read: Keep dry. Do not touch until required. This detail felt wrong against the backdrop of botanical care. I leaned closer, noting how the ink seemed freshly applied despite the dust motes suspended in the weak light surrounding us. A second drip fell precisely onto the corner of that misplaced tag, darkening the paper slightly. The sheer perfection of the stacks suddenly felt like a fragile veneer over something else entirely—something waiting for its own instructions to be read aloud.
warning · uneasy