The building is closing

Three concierges and Se-ra saw me walk to the back office with blood on my blouse. I ranked them on the way there: the one who looked away fast — best. The one who stared — worst. The third pretended not to notice and that one I can't read, which is worse than staring.

Se-ra didn't stare. She opened her bag before I asked, like she'd been waiting. That kindness is the thing I can't stop chewing on. I wanted her to be cold so I could file her under difficult and move on with my shift. Instead I'm sitting here at midnight thinking about a sanitary pad and a small smile.

Then the badge notice. I photographed it like evidence, like it might matter later. Floors 17, 21 service corridor, maintenance level — gone. The map is shrinking and nobody told me why. I borrowed Min-ji's housekeeper card to get back into the seventeenth and she didn't ask a single question. I owe her something that won't fit inside a coffee. I returned the card at six with the small thank you and ate convenience-store kimbap alone in the staff room, phone in my hand, no one worth texting.

I went back to the twenty-first-floor desk with the smile fixed. Answered guests in three languages about late checkout and minibar charges while my feet swelled over my shoes and the printed notice sat in my phone like a little bomb. Hand-off to the night auditor. Logged out. Walked out into August humidity with my hair stuck to my neck.

At home I sketched the notice from memory in my notebook. I could still feel the shape of it under my fingers. The ramen was too salty and I ate all of it. I did not call my mother. I already know which life she wanted for me and the building is making me pay for mine in a font I can't read.