The hallway smells like antiseptic and wilted lilies. I walk past the familiar check-in desk where the night nurse sits hunched over paperwork, her glasses low on her nose, the glow of the monitor casting lines across her face. She looks up when she sees me and gives a small nod—recognition without judgment.
"Room 302," she says.
I nod back. I don't need her to remind me about my mom's room, but whatever. My throat is too tight for words.
The walk to her room is short but stretched by the echo of my own footsteps. Every fluorescent light hums like it's trying to fill the silence. There are few of paintings on the hallway. I remember the paintings she used to make—blurry faces, skyless cities, colors pressed in too deep. The therapist called them "expressions of inner dissonance." I just called them hers.
