A Small Place for Singing

I reach into the pocket of an empty jacket, where a wristwatch with no hands is ticking. The watch's glass face is blurry with dust. I blow on it, but the dust does not clear. It will be hard to see what time it is. There is a song playing somewhere, but I cannot find its source. I look down the corridor, and it begins to play louder in my head. A song that I am also singing.

The room bends gently downhill, and I am in the middle of it. I walk slowly, listening to footsteps echo through an empty building. The floor is warm underfoot and cool against the bare skin of my ankles. In every room, there are signs of someone who came before me. But now they are gone. I continue to walk, singing.

A hotel corridor that bends gently downhill