Hockey tape plant

The old hockey tape plant breathes in a slow rasp, its adhesive ghosts still clinging to the air where vats once simmered and the sharp scent of resin coated every surface like a second skin, and now the floor lies hushed beneath a film of dust that settles in soft spirals as if time itself were grinding down to powder; rust blooms along the machines that once churned with mechanical certainty, their metal limbs stiffened into strange fossils, while the storage rooms cradle faded spools whose colors have dulled but whose memory of motion clings stubbornly to their edges, and upstairs the offices sag under the weight of yellowed manuals and brittle labels that peel like shed bark, whispering of orders that never shipped and hands that never returned; through broken panes the light arrives in hesitant shards, catching on the curled remnants of tape that cling to conveyor rails like dried veins, and the whole structure feels alive in its stillness, a dormant creature holding its last warmth, waiting in the cold hush for whatever slow future will stir its settling bones.