Luna steps off the elevator on floor twelve into a waiting room that smells of old paper and floor wax. A nurse at a sliding window, a clipboard with her own name already written, and a door that should lead to an exam room but opens onto a long corridor lined with photographs of people she almost recognizes. Every picture has a date — tomorrow's date. The nurse tells her the doctor will see her soon, but the clock on the wall has no hands, and the woman in the next room keeps asking for someone named Leo. Luna doesn't leave — she waits, because the elevator doors have sealed shut behind her, and because part of her wants to see what's behind the last door at the end of the hall.

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