It was raining sideways. Not metaphorically—Gregory had checked. The sky was having a tantrum and flinging droplets like passive-aggressive darts.
He ducked into the mall again. Not for shopping. For refuge. For reasons. For closure.
The air was stale. Someone had Febreze'd sadness. A half-lit marquee above the directory flickered the words:
> "You are here."
But the dot had bled into a neighboring corridor no one remembered existing.
Gregory, holding a lukewarm chai and the resignation of someone who had once tried, turned down the corridor.
The lights dimmed slightly. Or maybe they didn't. But it felt like someone dimmed him.
Maurice peeked from inside Gregory's jacket pocket, unusually silent. His owl eyes glinted like headlights in fog.
"Are you getting the sense," Gregory whispered, "that we just walked into a deleted scene from a haunted midlife crisis?"
Maurice blinked slowly. "Proceed with caution. And snacks."
At the end of the hallway stood an escalator.
