By the time the coffee finished brewing, the thing was gone, reduced to a gray smear on a disinfectant wipe and a casual shrug from the man who owns the building. He called it “probably just sealing foam” with the same tone someone uses to explain away a strange noise in an old house. Harmless. Mundane. Nothing worth thinking about. He said it the way you would call a ghost “probably just the wind,” and somehow that made it worse. The sound it made when it crunched off the wall still lives somewhere between my ears, replaying every time I glance at that now spotless corner and feel a flicker of unease I cannot quite name.
It had texture. That is what bothers me most. Not smooth or crumbly in the way you expect from dust or plaster, but structured, intentional, like something that had taken its time becoming what it was. It did not look like it belonged there, but it did not look accidental either. It clung to the wall as if it had grown there, or decided to stay. In the quiet minutes before it was wiped away, it felt less like an object and more like evidence.
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