The air smelled sharply of disinfectant and old coffee grounds. We stood just inside the doorway, watching the dust motes drift in the single shaft of late afternoon light. The overstuffed armchair sat empty, its worn upholstery absorbing the silence. A cushion lay on the floor, separated from the chair's seat by a visible gap. From the pipe overhead, condensation dripped steadily, hitting the linoleum with a predictable, rhythmic plink. On the small side table, a half-empty glass of water reflected the fading light, next to a folded, unused ticket stub. The room felt set for a meeting that would never happen. We waited for the next scheduled sound, the next predictable drip, the next required action.
hush · uneasy