I’ve started noticing the timing. It isn't just a coincidence; it's punctual, almost aggressive in its reliability. Every time the departmental review is scheduled for nine o'clock sharp—the kind of mandatory meeting that requires everyone to be present and mildly stressed—this industrial printer tray spits out one perfect, pristine sheet of blank paper. The machine whirs down with an audible sigh, a sound like a tired filing clerk leaving for the day. I’ve checked the feed mechanism twice now; there is no scheduled print job queued up, nothing that would trigger even a single test page. It just happens when the clock hand approaches 8:57 AM. The air in the annex smells strongly of ozone and old toner dust, settling like fine gray powder on the yellowed staple remover box near my elbow. I run a gloved finger along the metal lip of the output slot; there is a smudge of dark residue that looks suspiciously like graphite mixed with something metallic. It’s certainly not part of the standard maintenance checklist. The room itself seems to be correcting for this anomaly, subtly shifting its weight back toward routine. If I lean too close to inspect the roller feed mechanism, the adjacent filing cabinet drawer—the one marked ‘Pending Review’—will slide shut with a definitive, unnecessary thunk. It's as if the building anticipates the disruption and corrects it immediately afterward. The printer itself seems bored by its own performance; the warm-up fan cycles on and off in an irregular rhythm, sounding like someone tapping keys that aren't there. I wiped down the main chassis with a damp cloth, careful not to disturb the fine layer of dust coating the control panel buttons. It’s strange how much attention is paid to things that are fundamentally nothing—a blank sheet of paper ejected into a room full of people who only care about what will be printed on it next. I just sit here, monitoring the output slot and waiting for the inevitable little puff of empty white matter at 8:57 AM.
click · strange