The service counter was cleared down to its structural bones, smelling faintly of dust and industrial adhesive. Cardboard rolls for wrapping paper were stacked unevenly near the back corner, leaning against a dispenser of clear plastic tape residue. Near the glass display case, where unused floral cellophane sheets lay crumpled, a single piece of bubble wrap adhered itself stubbornly to the pane. It was tacky, catching the faint scent of settled grit and damp concrete dust that had drifted in from the alleyway entrance. A chair, heavy oak with worn runners, scraped across the tile floor—a low, repetitive sound like dry bone on stone. The motion signaled the end of inventory count; everything needed to be stacked neatly before the lock-up crew arrived. A caretaker moved slowly around the counter, adjusting a stack of thin card stock that had slipped slightly askew. They paused near the glass case, their gaze resting momentarily on the trapped bubble wrap. Nothing seemed out of place except for its presence—a small, forgotten imperfection in the otherwise clean geometry of the display. As they bent down to pick up a stray piece of plastic ribbon, the chair scraped again, this time closer and softer. The caretaker straightened up, brushing their hands against the counter edge. When they looked back at the glass case, the bubble wrap was no longer adhered to the pane itself; it had shifted slightly inward, now resting on the lower lip of the display unit, as if waiting for a specific pressure point that hadn't yet arrived.
mist · watchful