The Room That Continues Without Me

A coastal road at the hour before sunrise. Fog blankets everything except the row of houses that are very far away, and their pale windows, shining in a line. A blue car is parked in a field to the left, facing the sea. There is a tooth in my hand. I close it into a fist, and then open it again, the tooth falling out onto the ground, white, small as a pebble. The room comes apart, and I am standing in a small space that is not a room. It is clean and white and has no walls. There are doors that lead to nothing. A voice comes from the white space outside where a door should be: "You've left too soon."