The Lobby of Unknown Return

The lobby floor is marble, cool underfoot. I stand near the revolving door that only spins in the direction away from me. The air smells of polished wood and ozone. On a bench, a small envelope rests. It bears my name printed in ink that looks exactly like my own handwriting. I trace the folded edge of the paper, feeling the paper thin against my fingertip. I turn from the reception desk, where the attendant sits behind a counter made of dark, uncut stone. My throat feels hollow, a gap where a song should be. I call out the name of the place I remember, a place that exists only in the shape of longing. The sound catches on the air, and the word dissolves, leaving only the faintest vibration where the letters were.