I keep dreaming I'm a concierge in a hotel that's emptying out

The guests have all checked out, but I'm still wiping down the front desk, arranging the pens just so, leaving a single stirrer in a dry coffee cup. The bell never rings, and the lobby smells like wet pavement and old tobacco. It's not a bad dream, just a quiet one — like I'm the last person to remember a place that already forgot itself.