The Ward

The Curator is pleased to admit you for a twelfth viewing.

You will come in out of the cold into a great night infirmary given over to an attendance that never ends, all carbolic and beeswax and stopped clocks and a low breathing dark, where every soul who feared dying alone is sat with at last, tended and kept. There is a warm hand waiting and a bed turned down with your name on the card, and a chair drawn up close, and a house that has learned by heart the one empty chair you could not bear. One reminder, with our compliments: the way out is real, and this time it asks whether you can walk away alone, take no bed and leave no name, and go out into the cold street to a death that is your own.