The corner where the industrial dryer sits against the tiled wall was damp, even this late afternoon. A faint scent of softener mixed with dust clung low to the floor grout, a smell that always appeared when the cleaning crew finished their rounds and the main lights dimmed. Several stacks of linens waited there—towels in varying shades of yellowed white, mismatched pillowcases, and sheets folded into neat, if slightly uneven, blocks. The routine was simple: stack everything neatly before morning staff arrived to check inventory. A few damp detergent residues marked the tile near the baseboard, evidence of yesterday's wash cycle that had not yet dried completely. The largest pile consisted of bath towels, stacked three high, their edges softened by repeated washing. Everything seemed in place, organized for a quick count and departure. Except for one sheet. It was folded over the lip of the dryer drum itself, draped like an afterthought or perhaps a discarded ribbon. The fabric was thin cotton, pale blue-grey, and it did not belong to any stack nearby; its corner had been pressed flat against the metal edge. When I shifted my weight slightly, the entire pile of linens moved with a soft scrape across the tile floor. The sheet remained exactly where it was, suspended by gravity and an invisible adherence to the curve of the drum lip, refusing to fall back into the neat geometry of the stacks below it. It just stayed there, waiting for something that wasn't coming.
mist · tender