Transit, 02 (Patreon)

The elevator door slid closed with a hush, encasing Lori in a space that felt disconnected from the sprawling city and its labyrinthine airport that had drained her, body and soul. The murmurs of Moscow were muted here, replaced by the low, mechanical purr of ascent. The reflective surfaces hemmed her in with clones of herself, each one as fatigued and forlorn as she felt inside.

The exhaustion was not just from the hours spent in transit, from airport to airport, timezone to timezone. It was an accumulation of all the years she had invested in a job that demanded much and returned so little of what truly mattered. The countless nights she spent working overtime, the weekends she sacrificed, the personal life she had all but neglected—all for what? A fleeting recognition in the eyes of her superiors, a modest bump in pay, a plaque on her office wall?

Her life, which had once seemed like a straight path to success, now meandered through her thoughts like a convoluted maze with no exit in sight. Lori closed her eyes, the weight of her disillusionment as tangible as the suitcase handle under her grasp. The rhythmic clack of the floor indicators was a metronome to her rising desire for change, a silent acknowledgement that this unplanned stopover might be the prelude to something more, something different.

With every floor passed, the anticipation of washing away the grime of travel grew more acute. The shower was a baptismal thought, the chance to cleanse not just the sweat and dust of the day, but perhaps to stand under the hot spray and wash away the layers of a life she was no longer sure she wanted to live. The water would sluice over her, and for a moment, just a moment, she could imagine it all being different when she stepped out again.

As the elevator dinged upon reaching her floor, Lori opened her eyes. She was the same, yet something imperceptible had shifted within her. The door glided open, and she stepped out, her heels making the first decisive sounds of her new journey. The path to her room was not just a corridor; it was a starting line.