The fluorescent strips overhead cast a sickly yellow light across the fitting room corridor. It is late enough that the automated closing sequence should have finished, leaving only the residual hum and the faint scent of dry cleaning chemicals in the air. I run my hand along the brass fixtures mounted high on the wall—the hooks meant for coats. They are all accounted for; empty, polished, waiting. The yellow tile grout lines reflect the low light, making every seam look slightly damp, like a residue that won't quite lift off the surface. Everything here is supposed to be reset, filed away into commercial nothingness until morning. I survey the hooks methodically, checking each one against my internal count of fixtures and empty spaces. There are twenty-seven designated spots for outerwear, and twenty-six are bare. But the central hook, positioned precisely in the middle of the run, holds a single hanger. It is unremarkable—a plain wire shape—and it hangs perfectly centered, defying the surrounding emptiness. I wait, listening only to the low thrumming complaint of the overhead lights, which seems to vibrate through the soles of my worn boots and into my bones. I check the adjacent hooks again; they are empty. The single hanger remains suspended from that central point. There is no breeze here, nothing but the slow, steady pressure of the building settling for the night. It feels like a catalog anchor has been misplaced, or perhaps the room itself is undergoing an unauthorized refresh cycle. My eyes track the hanger's line—it seems to swing back and forth with an almost imperceptible rhythm, too deliberate to be natural, yet too subtle to dismiss as hallucination. I watch it for another minute, noting how the metal of the hook fixture catches the sickly glow, holding that single piece of wire in place against all logic.
glow · uneasy