One strange thing at a time.

The late afternoon light filtered through the high utility window, casting a dusty, yellow wash over the small, chipped terracotta pot. Crouching slightly, I watched the person steady the brass atomizer, its metal cool and worn. With a slow, rhythmic puff, the fine mist drifted over the damp, dark green leaves of the sapling. The scent that followed the spray was impossible—a sharp, sweet blend of cinnamon and spent motor oil. It hung in the air, momentarily masking the faint, mineral residue that had dried into a pale ring on the shelf beside the pot. The person continued the careful ritual, their movements precise, as if maintaining the appearance of absolute normalcy was the most important task of the day. The sapling seemed to absorb the strange, sweet-metallic vapor, its pale leaves catching the filtered light.