The stack of boxes sits low in the corner where the linoleum meets the baseboard, catching the late afternoon light in a slow curtain of dust motes. They are identical, unmarked cardboard units, stacked three high, and the faint, sweet scent of dry paper and packing tape hangs in the air. A single, crumpled plastic shopping bag rests near the base, and taped crookedly to the side is a handwritten sign: Please Wait. From this fixed vantage point, the only movement is the rhythmic, distant squeak of a cart wheel rolling down the main aisle. The boxes are filled with something perfectly uniform, something that should not exist, yet they sit there, waiting for the next person to follow the invisible queue. A greasy fingerprint smudge marks the corner of the top box, a residue left by someone who has been waiting for a very long time.
static · uneasy