The fluorescent lights hummed a low, steady note over the utility closet. It was cleanup time, and the air carried the sharp trace of industrial bleach mixed with wet lint—a familiar scent at this hour. I methodically stacked the heavy folding chairs near the back wall, checking the chrome dispenser tray for stray coins or paper scraps. The washing machines stood in neat rows, their rubber mats slightly damp from the day’s cycles. Everything needed to be squared away before locking up; the schedule was tight, and the night manager expected everything spotless. I ran a gloved hand over the smooth metal of the machine controls, noting the yellowed instruction pamphlet taped beside the soap dispenser. The procedure was always the same: stack, wipe, check, repeat. I moved to the shelving unit where bulk supplies were kept. On the top shelf, beneath the industrial detergent bottles, I noticed it again. One bottle—the heavy blue one for stain removal—was positioned just barely off the edge of the metal lip. It rested on a slight overhang, requiring a careful reach to correct its placement back onto the main surface. I nudged it firmly until it sat flush with the others. But as soon as my hand pulled away, there was a perceptible shift in weight; the bottle had drifted maybe half an inch outward again. This happened every time, regardless of how many times I corrected it. It wasn't falling, just refusing to sit correctly on the shelf edge. The machines were ready for the night, but the arrangement kept adjusting itself back toward that single wrong angle, leaving a faint sense of being watched by something unseen and precise.
mist · uneasy