The Corridor Bends Downhill

The green enamel cup feels cold against my palm. I check the watch; the crystal face ticks without hands. The smooth tile under my shoes is damp, warm from where a cleaning cart rested minutes before. The corridor bends gently downhill, and the light from the far end shifts from yellow to a deeper, oil-slick blue. I walk through the passage, noticing the brass plaques mounted on the wall listing dates that do not correspond to years. Ahead, a door opens onto another door. The second door is painted the exact shade of the first one, and a faint scent of ozone rises from the gap. I move into the opening, stepping into the vacuum between two passages.