The Hotel

A melodious guitar strum interrupts the silence. You jolt awake and find yourself sitting on a bench along the side of a road. You look around for the source of the strum, but none of the passers-by seem to be carrying anything even remotely resembling a guitar. The day is pleasant, and you’d have had more fun staying outside, maybe having a nice walk in the lush park behind you, but you find yourself slowly crossing the road. It feels as if the hotel is beckoning to you. Your movement is almost unwilling, but your pace is guided by your curiosity too. The rustic fashion of the hotel does little to help it stand out against the metropolitan skyscrapers all around. And yet, the door appears more ornate than perhaps even Pharaohs could have conceived of. With every step you take, the intricate details of the door seem to shift. From a distance, its gold details shine and shimmer but as you raise your hand to push the door open, you notice that it has lost its apparent sheen. Puzzled, you push the door open. The interior is plain grey, and there is nothing of note save for a counter at the far right, behind which an aged receptionist sits. He greets you with a smile, and as you walk toward him, you watch his expression fade to monotony. He gestures towards a corridor whose exact color you cannot quite put your finger on. Is it peach? No, it’s darker than that. Brown? No, it seems to have taken on a more orange hue, but it isn’t quite orange either. The frustration begins to creep in, so you shake your head and begin to walk down the corridor. You can make out a series of doors all along both walls, but you still don’t know why you are in this hotel. What is this place? Why did you feel the unearthly need to walk in? Why are you still walking? Do you even know where to go? Why didn’t you ask the receptionist? You turn, to see if he’s now too far away to call out to, but he’s just three steps away from where you are. You look around, and see that you’re in the center of the corridor, but still nowhere near even the first door. You return to the receptionist and try to convey the helplessness and sheer confusion you’re feeling. His monotonous expression wavers for but a moment, as he whispers two words with a hint of a smile. “Let go.”

You stand, transfixed, wondering what his words mean when the tumult of memories comes rushing back.You remember the road from outside, you remember the bench in front of the park, and you remember getting up and crossing the road. You begin to reel as you remember the oncoming truck. The screams and sirens, coalesce into one horrific cacophony, culminating at last in an unmistakable periodic beeping that tolls a harrowing lament. 

With a shuddering gasp, you return to the present. Your present, the everlasting future written by your past, awaits you. You brace yourself and begin to walk down the corridor again. With every step, your mind clears, and you eventually arrive at the door with your name on it. You take a deep breath and enter the afterlife.