The late afternoon light had faded to a thin wash of grey across the linoleum floor. Dust film rested on the luggage rack hooks where they held the duffel bag. It was overstuffed, heavy with mismatched items—sweaters and hardback books that pressed against each other like sleeping animals. A schedule board flickered above, listing departures in faded type, but no one looked at it anymore; everyone just waited for the next shift change or the final bus to arrive. The routine demanded a quick check: zip up, tag on, move along. I knelt down near the rack, my fingers tracing the grit-covered metal hooks and running them along the main zipper pull of the bag. It was stiff, catching slightly on some unseen snag in its lining. We needed it closed before the next wave of passengers arrived, but every time I pulled gently, the teeth resisted, grinding against each other with a faint metallic scrape that seemed too loud for the empty terminal. The air settled into a deep, echoing silence—the kind of quiet that only happens when everyone has stopped speaking and started listening to their own breathing. In this drop of noise, something shifted inside the bag’s contents. It wasn't a jolt or a sudden movement; it was a slow, almost imperceptible settling, like gravel shifting in an empty container. The zipper teeth suddenly seemed to loosen their grip on resistance. They aligned themselves into perfect, even rows, clicking together with a soft, rhythmic sound that barely disturbed the dust film coating the metal rack hooks. It looked too neat for something packed hastily; it was precise, almost deliberate. I watched until the pull tab settled flush against the zipper line, leaving no gap at all. The bag now sat there, perfectly sealed and strangely still in the fading light.
mist · strange