The mid-afternoon light filtered through the dust on the glass pane, illuminating the yellowed paper tickets stacked behind the counter. I stood outside the booth, waiting for the connection, and the scent of ozone mixed faintly with old paper. When I finally asked about the express route to the coast, the ticket window shade did not move immediately. Instead, it began a slow, deliberate descent, lowering precisely three inches until the bottom edge was just above the counter lip. The movement was mechanical, smooth, and entirely silent. After the question was fully formed, the shade paused for a beat, then began to rise again, returning to its original, fixed height. I watched the wood grain of the weathered frame as the shade settled back into place, leaving only the faint, unsettling impression of the drop.
hush · uneasy