The linoleum floor was a pale, bruised gray, scuffed by thousands of shoes that had carried heavy things to these doors.

The linoleum floor was a pale, bruised gray, scuffed by thousands of shoes that had carried heavy things to these doors. I sat on a plastic chair that hadn't been designed for comfort, only for endurance. The air smelled of industrial bleach and old coffee, a sharp, medicinal sting that seemed to cling to the back of my throat.

Across from me, an elderly man in a flannel shirt was peeling an orange. He did it slowly, his knuckles swollen and white. Every few seconds, he would pause to watch the swinging double doors at the end of the hall, his eyes tracking any movement with a desperate, quiet intensity. He didn't look at me, but he offered a small slice on the tip of his thumb as if it were a peace offering between strangers bound by the same anxiety.

I took it. The citrus was tart and sharp, waking up my tongue.

A nurse walked past, her rubber soles squeaking in a rhythmic cadence that timed itself to the steady hum of the overhead lights. She didn't stop, but she offered a tired smile—the kind given by people who have seen too much of the same thing today.

The clock on the wall had a second hand that jerked forward with a dry, metallic click. Each tick was a small movement in a long, stagnant afternoon. I watched a dust mote dance in a shaft of light cutting across the corridor, moving with a freedom that felt impossible in a place where everyone was waiting for something to change.