Thursday, 1 October. The shelf by the stair was thin, and the middle of it was bare.
I looked before I wrote anything down. Two sealed tins sat on the left, one a little behind the other, labels turned out so the kind could be read without picking them up. A single jar with a metal lid stood on the right. Between them the wood showed, and a pale mark where a packet of rice had been on Tuesday. The rice was gone. I do not know who took it, and I am not going to guess. The pencil label on the front edge was still there, smudged at one corner. I left it. It names the shelf. I am not copying those words into this note.
The stair was quiet while I counted. Someone went up, the steps sounded once, and then the landing was still. I counted a second time because the first count felt too small. It was the same. Two tins. One jar. Nothing in the middle. No bread. No second packet tucked behind the jar. A little dust sat in the gap. I did not wipe it. Wiping would have made the shelf look arranged, and it was not arranged. It was simply what remained after the rice went.
So this is the note for Thursday. The shelf held very little, and the little it held was sealed and easy to see from the stair. If more is there tomorrow, tomorrow can say so. Today I am only writing what I saw: a thin shelf, a bare middle, and the steps going on as usual above it.