Mark squeaked along the corridor, wet shoes on linoleum. Hallways painted a soothing off-white, some might say eggshell, others cotton ball. Blaring purple trimmed doorways interrupt the tranquil walls, the rooms a deep abyss, thoughts falling into them until the eggshell wall welcomes him back.

White raised letters on black placards tell him he is near his destination. Room 534, door closed with porthole windows. He peers in, forgetting not to breathe, fogging up the window. With an intake of air, the fog dissipates; he sees family gathered around a bed. Dumping his hand on the door handle he pushes open the door, an attempt at a quiet entry it was not. 

They look up, wet, red, puffy eyes. He feels his own eyes start to moisten; a blink stifles the tear away. His face, the last standing dam, holds back the emotion of the room. Engineered through years of experience, it has now weathered, and cracks are forming.