My husband forgot an important folder, so I buckled our son into his seat and drove to his office—an address I’d been to a hundred times.
Traffic was normal. Coffee in the cup holder. My son kicking his little shoes, humming to himself. It felt like any other morning—until we turned the corner.
The sign was gone.
Not “taken down for repairs” gone. Gone like it had never existed. The windows were filmed with dust. Chains were looped through the glass doors. Even the lobby lights were dead.
I parked and just sat there, staring.
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