Your Unfinished Future

The last door closes behind you without hurry.

You leave here with more room around you than the corridor promised, amended in a record you were never shown, and unlisted by every forecast above you. You also go out declining something without ever raising your voice, with your weekend still unspent, and given back a hallway you were once called into. And you walk on counted among the guests who stayed for a second cup.

The Domestic Weather Memory Era files your future under shelter. Expect rain indoors, and a voice calling you in before the thunder.

The Civic Time Expansion Era expects you back. It is still holding a day with your name on it and no year to put it in.

The lights go down one room at a time, in the order you walked them.