The hallway stretched out on either side, with both its walls holding open door frames which–from what could be made out through faint glimpses into these adjacent rooms—they were all bedrooms, all of distinct color and layout configurations.

Haphazard and mid-conversation, grandmother walked the corridor, scanning the length of one of the walls lining it. With both of her steady hands, the old woman reached and swung open a set of wooden doors and uncovered beyond them the inside of a built-in wardrobe. There, the doors settled wide open to the sides.

As the snapping of her lower back made a familiar click, the woman continued to bend down ninety degrees and pull out the bottom-most drawer. Whir~ whirr~ whirr~—the metal handle met the solid grip of her hand, and the drawer began at once to glide outwards with a heavy sound, stretching out, out, out—around five feet from the closure—and looking much like the body storage compartment of a morgue.

She scooped up my mother from beside her, layed her there, and pushed against the drawer, sending it to—whirrr—close back into the wall, then went to continue her way down the corridor.

“Why don’t you put her in one of the bedrooms? There are so many of them..”

She heard me and sighed, then—whirrr—slid the drawer open again, folded mother over her forearm like a wet towel, and continued to walk down the corridor, and into one of her many bedrooms.