The Final March
A string of rooms off a hallway. She had certainly been down this path before. It was the smell, she thought, that made it seem familiar. Commercial disinfectant, the same kind that had been used in the college dorms, in the offices at the software firm, and finally here, at her retirement home. It was strange to think that the thing that unified her life was a chemical smell meant to imply sanitary conditions.
Well, she thought, there’s nothing for it but to keep moving. Her steps echoing, she headed to her assigned room. “Serenity Hill, my ass.”
The photo prompt is courtesy of Rich Vorza. Links to all the other Flash Friday Fictioneers can be found here.
© Erin Leary