By the time the coffee finished brewing, the thing was gone, reduced to a gray smear on a disinfectant wipe and a casual shrug from the man who owns the building. He called it “probably just sealing foam” with the same tone someone uses to explain away a strange noise in an old house. Harmless. Mundane. Nothing worth thinking about. He said it the way you would call a ghost “probably just the wind,” and somehow that made it worse. The sound it made when it crunched off the wall still lives somewhere between my ears, replaying every time I glance at that now spotless corner and feel a flicker of unease I cannot quite name.