The fluorescent light hummed a steady, low note over the scuffed linoleum of Aisle Seven. I crouched near the egg display, running a finger along the edge of a cardboard carton. A woman paused beside me, examining the contents. She lifted a single shell, turning it over in her palm, and as her thumb grazed the porous surface, the small brass service bell mounted above the shelving unit gave a soft, distinct chime. It was not the sound of selection, but of error. She replaced the egg, seemingly unaware of the sound, and moved on. I waited for the next chime, watching the gentle, repetitive swing of the bell's arm, listening for the faint, metallic echo that seemed to cling to the air. It was a sound that only registered when the handling was wrong, a quiet, persistent reminder of a misplaced touch.
hush · tender