Shower

A compact, steam-choked enclosure whose walls gleam under the harsh glow of a single overhead strip. The confines press close, the printed tile pattern grouting darkened by decades of hot vapour rise, while condensation beads race down the steel ceiling panels like nervous fingers. A half-see-through curtain struggles to hem in the running water’s hiss, its beads catching droplets that plink against the metal stool and rusted razor-stubbled toothbrush tray perched on the cracked porcelain surround. The mirror above the basin is fogged with every quick breath, its edges brittle where corrosion has eaten through the chromium, yet it captures enough to reveal Mel’s wide eyes and the tense line of her mouth as she wedges herself behind the curtain rod. Dripping echoes off the linoleum floor, each plop underscoring the silence beyond the locked door—silence Mel prays will hold until the Vervoid’s next rasp.