The lobby benches are arranged in a straight line against the wall. They look functional, built of dark wood that has seen too many departures. I count them now: four units. One cushion sits off-kilter from the others. It is slightly damp to the touch, cool beneath the fingertips. A faint trace of stale coffee grounds rests near its edge, a residue refusing to settle into pattern. People drift through this space, pausing as if waiting for a specific train that never arrives on schedule. They arrange themselves around the kiosks, their movements slow and rhythmic. The late afternoon light filters through the vertical blinds, striping the scuffed linoleum floor in alternating bands of gold and shadow. A misplaced travel magazine lies near the brass railing—a glossy advertisement for an island I do not recognize. It has been opened to a page detailing local flora. Another person settles onto the bench next to the damp cushion, their weight causing the wood beneath them to emit a low groan. The routine is simple: sit down, wait, move on. But something resists this simplicity. When they rise, the magazine is gone. When I check the railing again, the brass has shifted; it seems slightly warmer than before. I notice that the air itself feels thicker here, weighted by expectation. It smells of old wood and wet concrete, a scent that clings to everything. The cushion remains damp, an impossible detail in this otherwise ordinary waiting area. Every few minutes, someone stops near the entrance, looking out as if searching for something beyond the glass doors. They pause too long, their gaze fixed on nothing. I continue my inventory count of the bench legs, noting how one corner tile seems to be perpetually wet, even when no water is visible. The waiting itself feels like a thing that requires cataloging.
mist · tender