It would end on the floor in the waiting room. The white walls would surround, fill, and reflect the washed light from the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling panels, which would break and shatter dust and glass. This would drift, and rain down on her aching body, sprawled against the linoleum. she'd be crying, or screaming, or maybe she's passed out from the news of "I'm so sorry for your loss". But she would be exausted, and hysterical, and desperate. the faces on the magazine covers spread to the tiles, mocking, sneering, screeching. the walls turn black and cave in, and yet she's struck blind by the offset lighting of the hallway fluorescents just in the other room, shadows her frame, setting off the low tuned hum that has spent months of company with this woman, and only now making its introductions with a whisper, so sad, calmly bittersweet.
The word Sorry is a pain, the word Sorry is a loss in itself.