They wait, quietly. Five suitcases no one came to retrieve. A jacket and hat folded on the concierge's desk. A set of Mah-Jong tiles trapped in mid-game, unending.
The burned walls were patched where they could be and the rooms sealed where they couldn't. More extensive repairs waited, too, in potentia. There was no help for it. The doors were closed. The spiders and silverfish reclaimed the floor inch by dusty inch.
Only the caretaker remains, keeping the grass trimmed, making what repairs he can, and sleeping every night in a blanket of cobwebs, dreaming of the past.
Whalen on Slow Reading
20 hours ago