lightning bolt

Then I saw her—a woman with gray-streaked hair, watching me from the hallway.

She wasn't my wife.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Thinking about baseball," I said, and something—lightning, maybe—struck inside me. The truth poured out: "My father taught me to hit when I was eight.

By twelve, I knew I'd never be good enough.

He stopped coming to my games.

I've spent thirty years climbing a pyramid that keeps growing, trying to prove something to a ghost."

The woman nodded slowly.

"The sphinx asks: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in evening?"

"Man," I said.

"Wrong," she said. "The answer is: whatever you're brave enough to become."

She extended her hand. "I'm Sarah from HR.

And you're not alone in this."

Outside, actual lightning struck, illuminating everything.

For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I was dying at all.