The fluorescent lights in this utility room always seem too weak, casting everything—the stacks of manila folders, the discarded boxes, even my own fingertips—in a pale, dusty wash. It is nearing closing time, and the pressure to finalize the count feels heavy, like old toner dust settling on every surface. I run my fingers across the edge of the last printed label pulled from the box; the paper is crisp, almost brittle, smelling faintly metallic, like oxidized ink left too long in a sealed container. My attention keeps snagging on the corner of this most recent piece. It’s just a tiny stain, barely visible against the off-white cardstock, but it's undeniably blue. I slide my thumb across the surface, gathering residual graphite dust that settles momentarily on the faint mark. This label was never near anything liquid; everything in this section is dry storage, sealed and categorized by date codes and item numbers. Yet there is a definite saturation here, a slight bleed of color that shouldn't exist. I pause my rhythmic sorting motion, lifting my head slightly to watch the motes of dust suspended in the weak light beam. It makes me feel like this particular piece remembers something it shouldn’t have seen—a trace left by an earlier run, perhaps one involving actual moisture or a different kind of ink entirely. The stack before me holds hundreds of these identical labels, each listing 'Item 409: Standard Unit.' They are all perfectly aligned, except for the slight anomaly on this single corner. I carefully turn the label over, checking the reverse side where only standard printed text should reside. There is nothing there but clean cardstock and the faint impression of my own fingerprints from earlier in the afternoon. The blue stain remains, stubborn and impossible, anchoring itself to the edge like a misplaced piece of history that refuses to be filed away with the rest.
mist · waking