The lobby where the marble is green

The wall tile, a shade of verdigris, presses against my fingertips. I smooth the tooth, white enamel cool against the palm of my hand. I trace the root line, a perfect, miniature spiral. The reception desk stands empty, the leather blotter holding nothing. I remember the smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with oiled wood floor. My steps took me down a hallway that is now sheer glass, reflecting only the upper floors. I stand where the concierge station used to be, and the weight of the tooth feels substantial, permanent. A polished oak bench sits near the exit, three empty names carved into its surface, each date missing. The air temperature shifts, raising the heat around my ankles. I turn back toward the mouth of the building, but the main entrance is a solid, unbroken wall of brick, solid red, blocking the way entirely.