The morning light filters weakly through the small bathroom window as I crouch down, wrench in hand, trying to fix a dripping pipe under the old cabinet.
The floor is cold, and dust motes drift lazily in the stale air.
I pause, feeling the chill seep into my bones, but it’s not just the cold that freezes me in place.
It’s the five tiny glass tubes, about five centimeters long, tucked away in a narrow crevice.
They catch my eye, pulling me closer with their strange allure.
Each tube is filled with a clear fluid, meticulously sealed, and yet, it’s their anonymity that unsettles me.
I wonder who put these here and why.
I examine them carefully, turning one over in my hand.
The glass is smooth, almost delicate.
It feels absurdly out of place in this cluttered, aging bathroom.
