The dust settled thick across the flats stacked against the back wall. It coated the edges of every box, a fine grey powder mixed with grit from the high window slats. I pushed the dolly forward, its wheels scraping rhythmically on the scuffed concrete seams toward the receiving bay counter. Inventory count was due by midnight, and the sheer volume of empty cardboard felt like a physical weight pressing down through my boots. We had to clear this section entirely; no boxes were allowed near the main aisle after sign-off. A single yellow caution tape ran across the floor, perfectly straight, bisecting the path between the stacked flats and the open bay. Nobody ever crossed it with anything heavier than a footstep. The dolly wheels scraped right up to the line, stopping just short of the bright yellow warning strip. I paused, listening for the expected squeak or scrape against the plastic tape. Instead, there was only silence, followed by a faint, high-pitched click. The sound seemed too sharp for this quiet bay, like something small and metallic shifting under pressure. I leaned down, running my finger along the yellow caution residue where it met the concrete seam. It felt slightly tacky, almost oiled, as if the floor itself had remembered the scrape of a wheel that hadn't moved in decades. The page held its breath for me, waiting until the final boxes were stacked and labeled before letting out that single, precise click.
click · watchful