The Goldfish at the Window

Maya pressed her palm against the cold glass of her office window, thirty-seven floors up. Below, the city sprawled like a circuit board of lights and water, the river cutting through it like a silver vein. She should have been preparing for the presentation—her promotion depended on it—but instead, she was watching the snow fall, thinking about the goldfish bowl on her desk.

Leonard had bought it for her three years ago, back when they were both new analysts, both convinced they could survive the corporate machine without becoming its zombies. "He's small," Leonard had said, dropping the fish into its bowl. "But he's got nowhere to hide. Kind of like us."

Now Leonard was gone—poached by the competition, or so everyone said. Maya knew better. She'd been the one to find the USB drive in his desk after he left, the one with the client files he shouldn't have had access to. She'd been the one to report it. She was the one who'd sold him out for a chance at moving up.

The goldfish swam in its endless circles, no memory of yesterday, no anticipation of tomorrow. Maya envied it.

Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: *They know what you did.*

Maya's heart hammered. She wasn't a spy—she'd never meant to be—but that's what she'd become, hadn't she? Sleeping with the enemy. Selling out her friend. All for what? This corner office? This view of water and glass?

She thought about Leonard's last day, how he'd looked at her like he was waiting for her to say something. How she'd stayed silent.

The goldfish rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent bubbles.

Maya pressed her palm harder against the glass, leaving a fogged imprint. Somewhere below, Leonard was starting over. Somewhere, someone was watching her, waiting.

She turned back to her desk, to the presentation that could save her career or destroy her. Outside, the snow kept falling, covering the city in white, burying yesterday so tomorrow wouldn't have to remember it at all.