Stamped

Something that happened recently.

She scurried down the roundabout down to the guard post for the mandatory security check. She frisked her front pockets for her ID, and give it to the security personnel. As the automatic door slid open, the scent of industrial-grade alcohol reeked, and the escaping cool air from the air-conditioned interior tried to ease the sweltering heat of her skin.

"Midweek madness, eh? Where to, Miss?" the guard cordially asked her as he snapped a picture of her ID, and stamped her wrist with the hospital's logo. He handed the card back to her with a serviceable smile.

"Medical Records, sir." she smiled wryly, awkward as ever in small talks.

"Oh, so you're a teacher. Do you know how to get there?"

At the question, she turned herself to the glass door- an odd habit of her to check her reflection once in a while- and then it dawned on her. She have seen her reflections in the glass door several times. In a student uniform, in a teacher's uniform, with visiting family members, with a former flame. But now, with no one but her resolve.

Without looking at the guard, she responded, bereft of her typical smile, "Yes. I know it, good sir. Four years since."

The guard gave her a glum smile and a nod. With fluids welling on the corners of her eyes, she walked in as the guard watches the door slid close.