The corridor continues without me

The tiled floor smells of disinfectant and old books. I walk through the main corridor of the school, but the high windows are covered with the stained glass of a hospital wing. A single thread descends from the junction of the ceiling and the wall, pulling taut. I follow it into the room where the radiator is marked with a number, a room I did not recognize in my old school. The door I pass through closes with the soft sound of a vault door latching. I turn back, and the back of the room is now occupied by another desk, a desk with a name plate I cannot read. The thread snaps just above the sill, leaving only the slack, invisible pull of the grief.