The fluorescent strip light flickers above the mop bucket, casting wet white reflections across the polished tile floor. It is low to the ground here, right in the corner where the utility cart meets the wall. I crouch down by the basin, observing the water level. Soap scum residue has built up around the rim of the metal pail; it’s a dull, uneven film that catches the light strangely. The faucet drips slowly—a steady, rhythmic plink sound against the porcelain lip. This dripping is constant, even though everything in this corner should be dry and accounted for by now. I run my eyes over the stack of empty cardboard boxes near the baseboard. They are stacked neatly, waiting to be taken out, but they look too perfect, like props left on a set. The mop bucket itself sits heavily, its contents reflecting an image of the polished floor that seems unnaturally clean for this hour. It is just before dawn, and the light filtering in from the main hallway has a strange, static quality—a damp sheen over everything. My attention settles on the shelf label attached to the new bottle of industrial degreaser. The product itself is clearly marked 'Premium Grade,' freshly stocked, but affixed directly above it is an old, faded sticker that reads ‘Expired.’ It’s physically impossible; the adhesive looks brand new, yet the ink beneath the protective layer is decades past its date. I trace the edge of the label with my thumb—the paper feels stiff and slightly brittle, like something pulled from a deep archive drawer. The whole arrangement feels wrong: the perfect sheen on the floor contrasting with the useless expiration notice floating above functional goods. I check the inventory sheet again, but the numbers don't match the visual weight of this corner. Just the dripping water, the label, and the unsettling quiet before everything has to start up again.
pulse · uneasy