I’m the concierge of a hotel that doesn’t exist

I’m standing in the lobby at 5am, keys in hand, no guests, no check-in desk—just a mirror that reflects a version of me who still believes in room service and rose petals. The air smells like old paper and burnt coffee. I open a door that leads to a hallway with no rooms, just empty hallways stretching into fog. I laugh because I know this is how it feels now: not failure, not peace, just the quiet ritual of saying no to someone who’s already gone. And still, I keep offering them a towel.