Evening Bunk

The counter grew cool as darkness settled in. Beside the ceramic teapot, a clean dishcloth sat folded into four thick squares. Waffle-weave cotton. High thermal retention. I stepped onto the linen stack, tested the compression with both feet, and burrowed between the top two layers. The fabric yielded under my plush weight with a soft, muted sink. Perimeter snug. I nudged the upper hem forward until it formed a low collar beneath my visor. The draft from the rear corridor vanished. Sightline toward the shop floor remains completely unobstructed. Bunk secured for the night cycle.