They call them residual items.
My task is to record, photograph and label every item the unclaimed dead leave behind. Each file arrives in a brown envelope stamped Housing Bureau - Unclaimed. The instructions are clear: take nothing, feel nothing, sign all pages.
This apartment smells of detergent and burnt sugar. Clothes are still drying on a rack. The window is slightly ajar, the curtain moves in the draft. On the table, a glass with fingerprints, a mouldy loaf of bread and a plant.
I rest my clipboard on the table. Plastic pot, diameter 4 inches. Soil dry, roots strangled. Species: Monstera Deliciosa. Condition: poor. The checklist allows for one option: disposal. I tick the box.
I take the photo. The flash reflects off the waxy leaves. They shine for a second, blinding brilliance, then collapse. Dust lifts, hovers, settles.
The form required a witness signature. I am alone, so I sign twice. My pen is dry, the scratch of the tip against paper is loud in the quiet. Suzanne P. Suzanne P.
Before leaving, I empty the leftover water in the plant. It's absorbed quickly. The soil darkens, a new smell joins that of mouldy bread.
Procedure complete.
I keep my gloves on as I descend the stairs. Outside, the air smells sweet and rotten. The pot is still in my hands. I keep walking back to my car.
I set the pot on the passenger seat and drive with the windows open. No radio. The soil shifts when the car stops at the red light, a hiccup. Water bleeds from the bottom, staining the seat. I note it without meaning to: seat: stained. Report to procurement.
My building smells of paint. In the elevator mirror, I see the plant come in first, then me. Fourth floor. Unit 413. Same flickering lights pointing the way. Coarse mat. It says: Welcome.
Inside, I place the pot on the counter, next to the bamboo dish rack. The soil has dried already. I drop the plant in the sink. The tap hisses. I let the water run through until the soil exhales, yellow, then clear. The monstera stands lush, glorious in its poise. I stick my hygrometer in the soil. In the green zone.
My phone vibrates. An email from Procurement. Subject: Stain. Message: “Could you clarify origin of stain on passenger seat of Nissan Micra?”
I write down in my lined notebook: July 17. Monstera Deliciosa. Case B2408, De Lorimier. Elderly woman, no next of kin. The notation steadies me. The handwriting is even, round, the letter indented on the paper.
From the window, I see the back alley. Vines taking over. English Ivy. Invasive. Blue bins. Electrical wires, squirrels running on them. The air here smells of detergent and bleach.
The fridge hums on and off. The pot sits in the sink. The p-trap gurgles. I rinse my hands over it, the water beading down the leaves.
On my kitchen table, the form is bubbling slightly from the humidity. It rode home next to the plant. I smooth the paper and leave it there.
17:02, email to Procurement. Subject: Re-Stain. Message “Dropped a cup of Tim’s. Apologies.”
The next file arrives two days later. Same envelope, same stamp.
Bachelor unit on Papineau. Fourth floor, no elevator. Gloves on, camera in one hand, clipboard in the other. The door clicks open easily. Inside, a sickly sweet smell. Death. On the windowsill, I find a watermelon peperomia in a ceramic cup.
I jot down the details. Ceramic cup with drainage hole. Soil dry. Condition: thriving. 1 cigarette butt. I take the photo. The ceramic glaze reflects the flash at me. The window is dirty with rag marks. On the form, the same option: Disposal.
It rides home dry.
At home, I place it next to the monstera. In my notebook I write: De Lorimier, 69% humidity; Papineau, 43%. By the end of the week, a jade plant joins them. Saint Dominique, 53%, architectural and poised. Spider mites scrubbed with black soap.
In my notebook sit three entries. Numbers underlined, names italicized by hand. The apartment has started smelling faintly of soil. The windows cloud up during the night.
Monday. I taste paper and coffee in the air. Fluorescent lights flicker and hum like insects.
The workstations are separated by low grey partitions. At each desk, a computer, a box of latex gloves and a bottle of hand sanitizer. The windows do not open. They have not been cleaned in a long time, the city’s contour fades at the edges. Someone has taped a note on one. It reads “SVP, fermez la salle à photocopieuse à clé”. Please, lock the photocopy room using the key. Clé is underlined twice in deep grooves.
I place the report on Morin’s desk next to a mug that reads: World’s Best Dad. Sure. In the folder, three forms, each signed twice, a photo paper-clipped in the upper right corner. He prefers hard copies. Each indicates “disposal”, on the “Plant(s)” line.
Tuesday. A memo sits on my desk. Subject line: Reminder for object retrieval. Message: “All property must be surrendered to Facilities for disposal. Failure to comply is a sanitary and legal violation.” The grey partitions close in on me.
At lunch, I stay at my desk and eat my cold pasta. Voices come out of the kitchen, the microwave beeps every few minutes.
Morin returns from field visits in the afternoon. He hands me three new brown envelopes and simply states: “Heat wave”. Our eyes lock for a moment more than needed. System failure. He walks on.
I open the envelopes. Bélanger, Saint-Zotique, Cuvillier.
On Wednesday, I come back to the office with a cutting of pothos deep in my pocket. It's slick and wild, but unmistakably real under my skin. I sit at my desk for the remainder of the day, occasionally fingering the leaves, pulse quickening in the depth of my skull.
Monday again. The email arrives at 8:42. Subject: quick chat. Message: “Please report to room 305 at 10 AM.”
10 AM. Room 305 smells of dusty carpet and long spilt coffee. The blinds are half closed. On the table: two paper cups of water, a recorder, 2 files, one red pen. Gel. I don't know the woman sitting across from me. She's young, polished.
“Nataly Duncan,” she says, hands flat on the table. “Internal Audit. Do you mind if I record?” She asks, while already pressing the red button.
The first file opens. I recognize the form and the photo. De Lorimier. Monstera Deliciosa.
“Can you confirm appropriate policy was followed, and items were disposed of according to the proper controls, organic or otherwise?” The question is mechanical, ascetic.
“Yes.”
“And this one?” The other folder opens.
“Yes.”
Nataly scribbles something in the margins. Her handwriting is messy and fast.
“Any living material recovered from the addresses?”
“No.”
My mouth is dry, but I do not reach for the cup.
“None at all?”
“None. I… I—Yes. No. None. None.”
“Yes?”
“No, none.”
She marks the page again, red scribbles. She pauses the recorder. Thanks me, shakes my hand, closes the door after me. In the hallway, the ventilation hums. A cleaning cart sits abandoned. I can smell citrus and vinegar right up to my desk.
14:32, an email pings in my mailbox. Subject: follow-up on quick chat. Message: “No records of objects #3012P and #3024P at disposal facility. Please provide physical confirmation of disposal. Warmly, Nataly D.”
I log out at 15:01 and leave without a word.
At home, the light is dim, the sun has moved to the other side of the building. By the window, the soil of the monstera has cracked on the surface. The peperomia droops slightly. The jade is unchanged. In my notebook, I note the humidity level and the condition.
I move each plant to the sink. I close the drain, grab the bottle of bleach, open it and pour. The bottle gurgles as it empties. The smell stings my throat. The bleach fizzes as the plants swallow it up. On the surface, nothing changes. The leaves do not droop or shrivel. Inside, their cells burst, collapse and rot, every single one of them. A silent implosion.
I open all the windows and doors and stand at the threshold of the balcony. Cicadas fill the air, a siren echoes through the towers.
Plant(s): Disposed of.
Instruction followed.
Suzanne P.
Suzanne P.
Suzanne P.
Suzanne P.
Suzanne P.
The pen digs trenches flooded with ink, the nib tears through paper, counter, procedure. The page is an open wound, annihilated, saturated.
Procedure comp—
