The main lobby service counter was arranged for morning transactions, polished to reflect the weak intrusion of sunlight slicing through the high window panes. Dust motes hung suspended in the light beams, catching the faint scent of industrial cleaner and old laminate. Everything appeared precisely where it should be; stacks of unused intake forms rested neatly on the granite surface, waiting for signatures that would not arrive until mid-morning. Near the edge, a brass tally counter sat at its default zero setting, gleaming faintly under the fluorescent glow which seemed to struggle against the approaching day. A slow, steady drip punctuated the silence from an unseen faucet, marking time in rhythmic metallic drops that echoed off the tiled floor. Everything suggested a thorough reset had taken place after midnight—the chairs were aligned, the pens capped, and the counter surface was immaculate save for one thing: a clean, curved fingerprint smudge on the glass panel just above the transaction slot. The only anomaly was the brass tally itself. While every other element of the lobby maintained the rigid order of institutional routine, the counter’s zero setting felt unnervingly solid, as if it were counting something far more permanent than transactions. The drip continued its measured cadence, and with each drop, the smudge seemed to deepen slightly into the glass. It was a quiet pressure against the expected flow; an object keeping account not of completed tasks or items exchanged, but simply of time passed while nobody had approached since the last shift ended.
warning · uneasy