The Corporate Undead

The fluorescent lights hummed their eternal 2 AM song as Marcus rubbed his eyes, his fingers catching in the gray **hair** at his temples. Thirty-nine years old and already the assistant regional manager couldn't remember what it felt like to be young.

"You still here?" Clara stood in the doorway, her **hair** a wild cascade of curls that had defied the office dress code since she'd been hired six months ago. "Your wife's going to leave you, Marcus."

"She already did," he said, without looking up from the spreadsheet. "Three months ago."

Clara's expression softened. She crossed the room and perched on the edge of his desk, blocking his view of the quarterly projections. "Remember when you told me about your son's **baseball** games? How you used to catch his pitches even when they stung your hands?"

"He stopped playing. He's fifteen now. He thinks I'm boring." Marcus finally looked at her. "He's not wrong."

"You're not boring. You're a **zombie**." Clara said it with affection, not cruelty. "We all are. **Running** on coffee and resentment, showing up because the mortgage doesn't care if we're dead inside."

"That's not a metaphor." Marcus's voice dropped. "I feel like I've been **running** toward something my whole life, but I can't remember what. And now I can't remember how to stop."

"Then stop." Clara slid off the desk. "Right now. The **baseball** fields are probably empty. Go **running**. Do something that makes you feel alive before you become one of those **zombies** who looks back from deathbed wondering where the years went."

Marcus saved his work and stood up. For the first time in years, he couldn't remember what he'd been working on, and for some reason, that felt like hope.