Empty
The white walls are bare, like skeletal trees in the wintertime that have been stripped naked of their leaves and left to point accusingly at the iron grey skies.
The clouds churn, threaten rain. The air is charged with tension and the hair on the back of necks stand up on end in anticipation. The wind howls its rage at the nothing, racing down the halls to throw its weight impotently against blank closed doors, doors like shuttered eyes.
We leave our families behind, leaving the front doors gaping wide open like an idiot's slack-jawed grin.
Our hearts are empty.