The dolly wheels squeaked a slow rhythm against the concrete floor as we cleared out the back corner of Aisle Seven. Dust motes hung thick in the weak yellow light filtering through the high window slats; they caught on the faint scent of industrial cleaner and old cardboard. Everything here was stacked—unmarked boxes, rolls of bubble wrap, empty plastic bins that had served their purpose long ago. I paused by a low shelf unit where several labels were peeling off like dried skin. One label, faded yellow and reading 'Do Not Use,' was taped over with a fresh, black date stamp: 10/28/24. It looked too crisp, too recent for this corner of forgotten inventory. A small price scanner sat on the shelf beneath it, its plastic casing dull and slightly greasy near the base. I ran my thumb across the box stack nearest to it; there was a faint smudge of grease right where the cardboard met the metal lip of the shelving unit—a tiny mark that shouldn't be there. We had been working for hours, trying to meet the inventory deadline before closing time, and the silence in this corner felt heavy, like dust settling on unread paper. I leaned down slightly, adjusting a box labeled 'Miscellaneous Supplies.' The scanner remained inert, its little display screen dark. I sighed softly, not knowing why I was doing it, just whispering into the quiet space between us, "Sorry for everything." A barely audible click followed that whisper. The unit’s power indicator light flickered once, then settled on a steady, soft green glow. It wasn't supposed to activate like that; its internal mechanism should have required a full system reset or at least a manual press of the start button. Instead, it hummed—a low, almost apologetic buzz—and the little screen flashed a single number: 0. The light felt warm against my fingertips when I reached out and touched the plastic housing. It was waiting for something, like a quiet conversation about how things used to work before everything got so busy.
mist · tender