The Corridor Bends Downhill

The thread pulls taut from the oak door knob, leading down the corridor. It catches on the corner of the striped rug, the pattern green and yellow. I walk toward the sound of the radio, a low hiss of pop music emanating from the end of the hall. The air smells of dust and wet cement. Above, the ceiling holds a patch of sky, the colour of tarnished copper. I pass the room 312; the door number reads the year 1987. My weight shifts, making the polished floor feel slightly warm. A faint breeze brushes past my wrist, carrying the salt-tang of the ocean. The thread continues, pulling toward a stairwell that dips sharply.