The supply closet corner is cool tonight. Late afternoon static presses against the yellowed instruction sign. It reads ‘Use only for hands.’ The industrial soap dispenser sits on a small, chipped shelf bracket. A faint scent of chlorine and wet metal lingers near the floor grout line. I logged the count at 14:00 hours. It read ninety-seven refills. Now it is closer to closing time. The counter dial mechanism seems sticky. Soap residue streaks down the side casing in vertical, pale rivulets. They look like miniature waterfalls that stopped abruptly. The drip from the sink faucet across the room maintains a slow, rhythmic plink. This sound provides no actual measurement of anything useful. It just keeps time against the low background hum. The dispenser itself is designed for high volume use. Its weight suggests institutional permanence. I noted three drips running down the metal pipe connecting the unit to the wall mount. They are not water; they appear thicker, almost viscous. The label remains precisely centered on the front panel. It has never moved from its current position. The count dial is marked with small black numbers and an arrow that points directly at ninety-seven. I watched it for a full minute, waiting for any shift in the needle’s resting place. Nothing happened. Just the hum, steady and low, vibrating up through the concrete floor. The paper towel holder next to it is empty, its metal frame slightly damp from condensation. It suggests recent activity that was not recorded on this specific counter. I checked the inventory list against the visible stock. Everything matches standard protocol. Yet, there is a subtle misalignment in the arrangement of the yellowed signs tacked above eye level. They are straight, but they do not align with the corner’s natural angles. It is an unnecessary detail to observe, one that requires too much focus for a routine check. The counter dial still reads ninety-seven refills. I recorded the time and left the unit exactly as it was found.
hum · uneasy