The Fox at Midnight

Another seventeen-hour day. Marcus dragged himself through the lobby of his apartment building, feeling every ounce the corporate zombie he'd become. The security guard barely looked up—Marcus had been walking past him at 2 AM for three years, a ghost haunting his own life.

On his desk, the goldfish spun in its tiny castle, orange scales catching the lamplight. His ex-wife's parting gift—some joke about his memory span, his ability to forget every fight, every promise, every anniversary before the sun rose. She'd left six months ago, and still, the fish remained.

He poured water from a brita filter into the tank, watching bubbles rise like the thoughts he couldn't articulate anymore. I'm sorry, he wanted to tell someone. I don't know how to be alive anymore.

A fox trotted past his window on the fire escape—sleek russet fur, amber eyes meeting his through the glass. In all his years in this city, he'd never seen one. It felt like an omen, or maybe just another hallucination from sleep deprivation.

The fox dipped its head into a puddle on the landing, drinking as Marcus watched, transfixed. Wild thing, in a dead city.

Marcus thought about opening the window. The fox would probably scatter. Everything did, eventually.

Instead, he sat on the floor and watched through the glass. The fox finished drinking, shook rain from its fur like it was shaking off the whole weight of the world, and disappeared into the urban night.

Marcus stood up, crossed to the fish tank. The goldfish hovered near the glass, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition.

Tomorrow, he decided, I'll go to the ocean. I'll see real water. I'll be something other than dead.

The fox would still be out there somewhere. The fish would keep swimming. And maybe, just maybe, he would too.