The hoover hummed to life the way it always did, steady and familiar, as Mark pushed it across the hard floor of his kitchen. The Henry vacuum smiled up at him, cheerful as ever, but something felt off. Sunlight cut through the window, and in that beam, Mark noticed it. Dust. Not settling, not disappearing, but floating. Swirling. Almost dancing in the air behind the hard floor tool.

He frowned and ran the hoover back over the same spot. The floor looked clean, but the air told a different story. Tiny particles drifted toward the skirting boards, into corners, onto the table he had wiped just minutes earlier. The harder he cleaned, the more dust seemed to rise. It felt like chasing shadows.

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