The fluorescent light in the utility closet hummed, a steady, high-pitched drone that seemed to vibrate the chipped ceramic mug near the edge of the counter. A stack of yellow manila folders sat waiting, their edges slightly softened by time, and a spilled box of staples lay scattered like metallic confetti. A single, errant paperclip moved with unnerving precision, catching on the corner of a folder labeled 'DO NOT SORT.' The clip began its slow, rhythmic work, nudging the surrounding files into perfect, ascending order. The only sound accompanying this meticulous sorting was the faint, scraping drag of a chair across the linoleum floor, punctuated by the dry, papery whisper of the folders shifting. A faint scent of old toner ink hung in the air, suggesting a task that had been paused, then resumed, without human intervention. The paperclip continued its task, its metallic form catching the late afternoon light, maintaining a perceived order that seemed far too absolute for the cluttered space.
hum · tender