The Corridor Bends Downhill

The beige carpet underfoot loses warmth at the corner bend. I see the drawing tacked to the municipal notice board: a crayon house, three squares, one with a crooked chimney. A stranger stands at the reception desk, skin the shade of wet slate. Their eyes track my face, their mouth slack. The window across the way holds heavy, yellow light, the thick green leaves of October pressed against the glass. I move down the corridor, the slight descent making my calves ache. The stranger tilts their head, a motion precise and incomplete, as if they just recall the shape of my name. The air smells of damp wool and old cedar. I pass a door marked 312, and the wood grain seems to list the months of the year instead of the numbers.