The landlord arrived at ten

The landlord arrived at ten

with his caulk gun and his practiced hand.

By eleven, the gap was sealed—

white line filling the space

I've been reporting for six months.

He worked fast.

Didn't explain what he was doing,

didn't say it would fail again,

didn't mention the years

I'd been watching water leak

through that same crack.

The caulk dried unevenly.

One corner already pulling away.

He handed me the invoice,

said to call if it didn't hold,

and left.

I stared at the white line,

at the tile it was supposed to seal,

at the knowledge that this would crack again,

that next spring when the humidity shifted

I'd be standing here

staring at the same gap,

waiting for someone to come back

and pretend

that something broken

can actually be fixed.

The caulk sat there,

not quite sealing,

already failing.

And I did nothing.

Called no one.

Said nothing.

Just stood there

knowing exactly how long

this would hold.