The Lobby of Unentered Places

The brass key heats my palm, a weight too warm for the air. I stand in the vast, polished marble lobby, the kind of space with high ceilings and a green enamel cup resting on the reception counter that always looks half-full. Today, the name hangs suspended, a loose object I carry through the crowd of faceless coats. A soft melody begins, played by an unseen piano, the sound echoing off the white tile. My throat opens, and I sing the tune back, the pitch exactly matching the music, making the key feel momentarily lighter, as if gravity only touches the ground outside the glass doors. A figure in a charcoal coat stands near the pillar, its posture wrong, slightly tilted, and watches the sound continue.