The late afternoon light was thin, slicing through the high, grimy window slats of the janitorial supply corner. I moved along the wall, my boots clicking on the scuffed linoleum tiles that smelled faintly of disinfectant and damp cardboard. It was closing time cleanup—the routine shift where everything had to be placed back into its designated slot. The mop bucket sat near the far corner, a basin of murky water reflecting the polished floor behind it. I reached for the hanging rack, pulling down one of the unused mop heads. As usual, the wet rubber edges were saturated, dripping steadily back into the pail below. It was fine; the dampness was expected after the main sweep of the day’s grime. The scent in the air remained cool and sharp, a constant reminder of bleach and industrial cleaner. I hung the mop head on the rack hook until it dripped its last visible drop. I stepped back to survey the arrangement: buckets aligned by size, pails stacked neatly against the wall, all under the low hum of fluorescent lights. But as my eyes tracked across the wet surface of the pail, something shifted in the reflection. The polished floor beneath the water showed not just the empty corner, but a faint outline—a perfect square where nothing had been placed moments before. I looked away quickly, scanning the surrounding stacks of cleaning supplies and dry buckets. Then I turned back to the mop bucket’s lip; the surface tension was undisturbed, yet one single mop head remained perpetually damp, hanging from its hook even though it had been fully dried and hung in the air for nearly an hour. The water inside the pail seemed to hold that reflection steady, refusing to let the polished floor settle into a simple emptiness.
hush · uneasy