The basin floor is damp grey porcelain, reflecting the low mid-morning light. At the corner, the soap foam has gathered, not in random suds, but into the precise, folded geometry of a laundry basket. It holds its shape with an unnatural, crisp definition, the visible crease running sharply down the central fold. A slow, steady drip from the faucet punctuates the silence, each drop expanding the foam's perimeter slightly. Trapped within the deepest folds, a small, wet leaf rests, its edges darkened by the soapy residue. The air carries a faint, mingled scent—mildew mixed with the sharp, clean tang of soap. The foam seems to wait, a perfect, soapy monument to the domestic order that has been postponed.
mist · uneasy