The Bottom of the Ninth

The alarm screamed at 6:00 AM, and Mark dragged himself upright, another morning moving through the world like a zombie — hollowed out, going through motions that no longer meant anything. Two years since Sarah's cancer, and he'd mastered the art of looking alive while feeling dead inside.

Her golden retriever, Buster, thumped his tail against the bedroom door, the only living thing that still seemed glad Mark existed. He'd promised to care for the dog, though some days it felt like Buster was the one caring for him — nudging his hand for food, forcing him outside, anchoring him to something beyond his own grief.

The baseball stadium loomed against the sunset as Mark arrived for his shift as an operations manager. He used to love the game, the crack of the bat, the collective gasp of a crowd watching a ball sail toward the fence. Now it was just noise. Sarah had been the baseball fan; he'd only learned to tolerate it for her sake, sitting through innings with her head on his shoulder, explaining the rules she'd grown up knowing by heart.

"Mark!" His coworker Elena waved from across the concourse. "You coming to the team dinner Friday?"

He almost said no, the automatic response he'd given to every invitation since the funeral. But something in her eyes — not pity, just genuine warmth — made him pause. Buster needed more from him than kibble and walks. Sarah would have wanted him to want things again.

"Maybe," he said, and the word felt foreign in his mouth, like speaking a language he'd forgotten.

Driving home, Mark caught himself humming along to the radio. Then felt guilty, as if moving forward somehow meant moving on, as if the weight of her memory could only be honored through endless winter. But that wasn't true. She'd loved baseball for the joy of it, the way a perfect game could make strangers stand together, breathless and believing in something larger than themselves.

Buster met him at the door, whole body wriggling, and Mark dropped to his knees, buried his face in soft fur. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

The zombie would stay buried. The baseball season was starting. And for the first time in two years, Mark thought maybe — just maybe — he might learn to love spring again.