The Lobby of Known Absence

The polished travertine floor absorbs sound. I stand in the space where the mezzanine meets the reception desk, a lobby I have never entered. A small dog waits by a bench, a solid weight of black fur, its eyes fixed on the corner clock, unblinking. The stranger standing near the brass directory wears a coat the colour of wet slate. Their gaze catches mine, a pull at the edges of a memory I do not own. A single note drifts down from an unseen speaker—a melody with minor chords and the sound of vinyl crackle. I begin to sing the melody. The stranger lifts a hand, their fingers curling slightly, and joins the song. The dog’s head tilts; its ear catches the vibration of my throat. The air smells of old linen and distant ozone.