The Last Bull Market

The notification on Marcus's **iPhone** lit up the dark living room: Dad hospitalized. Stroke. He stared at the screen until it dimmed, the glow fading like his father's once-fiery spirit.

At forty-two, Marcus had spent two decades trading on Wall Street, riding **bull** markets and bearish runs with equal adrenaline. But nothing had prepared him for the sight of his father—once a man who'd taught him to swing a **baseball** bat before he could walk—now lying pale and still in a hospital bed, tubes snaking from his arms like so many **cable** lines connecting him to life itself.

"He's been forgetting to take his **vitamin** D supplements," his mother said, her voice brittle. "For months. I kept reminding him, but you know your father. Stubborn as ever."

Marcus nodded, swallowing the guilt. He'd been too consumed by his divorce proceedings—Sarah, the **bull**-headed woman who'd refused to compromise on anything, not even the custody arrangement—to notice his parents' slow decline.

"Mr. Harper?" The young doctor approached, clipboard in hand. "Your father's prognosis is guarded. But he's asking for you."

Marcus entered the room alone. His father's eyes, clouded but still sharp, found him.

"Boy," his father whispered. "Got something for you."

With trembling fingers, the old man reached under his pillow and produced a battered **baseball** card: a 1956 Mickey Mantle, preserved in plastic. "Your grandfather gave me this. Told me to keep it safe for my son. Never found the right time."

Marcus's throat tightened. "Dad..."

"The market's always gonna have **bulls** and bears," his father wheezed, hisinvestment-banker son's occupation suddenly clear in his fading mind. "But family... family's the only stock that matters."

Marcus took the card, his father's papery skin brushing against his own. Outside, rain lashed against the window like nature's own **cable** transmission, delivering some urgent message from the universe about time, regret, and the terrible cost of waiting too long.

His **iPhone** buzzed in his pocket—Sarah's lawyer, no doubt. But Marcus didn't reach for it. Instead, he sat by his father's bedside and held the old man's hand, the **baseball** card pressed between their palms, until the monitors' steady beeping became the only sound that mattered.