You've been at the far end for a long time. There are doors; many doors, all the way down. The floor is concrete, the doors of metal. There are windows in all the doors.
It's afternoon and it feels soothing in spite of the breeze coming only from a fan. Here, it's always choking hot regardless of the season and time of day, and there is a weak but persistent smell of sweat in the air. It's as though the heat sucks the air out of the rooms, out of the hallway. No air left where the people sit.
Right now, it's quiet. But it's not silence; it's maddening. Everybody behind every door feels it. So there's a great collective quiet that covers the common fear that's so dreadful it's too much to talk about. You're one of them, and you are waiting with everybody else. On and on, in silence.
Your last appeal has been rejected. It's only a matter of time now. You've been at the far end for a long time. In a cell with a locked door. A momentary stop on death row.