Stepping into the dim corridor, my eyes flick nervously at the sight of sleek modern architecture and counterfeit pretentiousness, tidy women behind counters and clandestently sleazy capitalists. My shiny black heels click behind me as I apprehensively step towards the concierge, although the people and reception surrounding me slowly reforms into an entirely new sort of prospect. Desk jockeys entertaining their mundane routines unravel to reveal white trellises adorned with pale, deathly roses and my steady hands speckle with icy flakes akin to tears, and I'm faced with an old fruitwood cabinet. Antique porcelain and silverware line its shelves, and as though I'd been impaled, my stomach pulls itself with dread. Though the intimate snowfall only intensifies, my heart continues to weaken.
