My companions and I pause at the doorway. Collectively, we turn back to gaze at the scene we have just passed through. The view is oppressive - dismal even - when contrasted to its appearance in happier hours. At this moment, it appears as the tomb it really is, where no breath of fresh air can waft freely, nor ray of natural light pierce unobstructed. The interior is bleak, empty, and hopeless. Our eyes meet strange contraptions and unfamiliar faces, grim in the recent darkness. Voices of those long passed away cry as if from the dust, echoing from the furthest reaches of the rooms.
To a passer-by, we may look like an intrepid - or not so intrepid - band of explorers, pausing at the threshold of some new adventure, our faces belying excitement and caution, ambition with fear and hesitation. Or perhaps we look more like refugees, who upon leaving a beloved locale, turn back for a final view of the setting of happier times.
The first set of doors swings shut, moved by some unseen hand, obscuring our view and signaling that time is short. The second set of doors swing shut, and with it, our view of the interior is completely lost. Yet we stay. We stay, as if bound by some force that has not yet granted us the will or the permission to move on.
But at once, we three disperse in three different directions, as if a signal has been given. And it has. With the echo of the double click fading in our ears, we are free, and who can know when I may return?
Well, actually, I do. And so do about 14 of my coworkers. But still, who knows?
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