The Corridor Bends Downhill

The green enamel cup weighs nothing, and the water inside stays steady, always three-quarters full. The stranger pauses, face close. I recognize the faint scar above the left eyebrow, the exact colour of a bruise left by a belt. He nods once, a movement too sharp for the passing second. The carpet texture changes near the bend, the beige pile gives way to cool, slick marble. I pivot, seeking the curve where the potted ficus stands, but the tile where I stepped down minutes ago is now filled with deep shadow. The wall panels along the hallway list the year 1978, the numbers blurring the moment I lift my hand to check them. The hallway continues, an empty stretch of polished wood, and I walk toward the end where the air smells cold, like wet linen.