Market Corrections

Margot's cat, Barnaby, watched from the windowsill as she paced the apartment in her silk robe. It was 3 AM and the Asian markets were opening. She'd been a commodities trader for fifteen years, and somewhere along the way, she'd forgotten how to sleep without pharmaceutical assistance.

On her desk, a single goldfish swam in endless circles in its bowl. Her ex-husband had left it behind—along with the apartment and the staggering alimony payments—when he'd run off with a yoga instructor. She'd named the fish Liquid, after her assets. Sometimes she envied it. No margin calls, no quarterly projections, no panic when the bulls turned bears.

Her phone buzzed. The firm's group chat. Another junior analyst having a breakdown over copper futures. She ignored it and poured another drink.

"You're lucky, Liquid," she murmured, tapping the glass. The fish darted away, orange scales catching the moonlight. "No bull markets to chase, no bear markets to survive. Just swimming."

She remembered her first mentor's words: *The market is a living thing. It breathes, it sleeps, it wakes hungry.* He'd died of a heart attack on the trading floor at forty-two. She was thirty-nine now, feeling every year of it in her joints, her marriage, her slowly hollowing chest.

The cat meowed, demanding attention. Margot scooped him up, buried her face in his fur. He smelled warm and real, unlike everything else in her life. Unlike the numbers she stared at twelve hours a day—virtual wealth that could vanish in a heartbeat, taking pensions and livelihoods with it.

She set Barnaby down and walked to the window. The city glittered below, indifferent and magnificent. Tomorrow—no, today—she would walk into her office and tell them she was done. Not retiring, just done. Done with the bulls charging toward cliffs, done with the bears ripping flesh from bone, done with making money by moving money around.

Liquid the goldfish swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. Margot smiled, just a little. Somewhere there was something real left in the world. Somewhere there was still a life worth living, not just surviving.

The cat jumped to her shoulder, purring like a small engine. She watched the sun begin to rise over the financial district and finally, finally, felt like she could breathe.