The Last Day of October

Marcus stood in his office at 7 PM, the only light coming from his computer screen and the orange glow of the Halloween decorations in the hallway. He felt like a zombie—not the brain-eating kind from movies, but the corporate variety: hollowed out by endless Zoom calls, performance reviews, and the relentless drip of emails into an inbox that never emptied.

His phone buzzed. Sarah again. She'd stopped calling three months ago, around the time Marcus stopped coming home before midnight. Now the notifications were just digital ghosts haunting his lock screen.

He opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out the small wooden box. Inside lay a carved bear figurine his father had given him before the dementia took everything. 'Strong like bear,' his father had said, his Norwegian accent thick as fresh snow. 'You survive anything.'

Marcus hadn't survived. He'd endured, perhaps, but survival implied something wilder, more intentional. He'd merely existed.

The office had a water cooler that had been empty since Tuesday. No one had bothered to replace it. That was them all lately—running on fumes, pretending nothing was wrong while the building metaphorically burned down around them. Layoffs were coming next week. Everyone knew. No one spoke.

His father's last lucid memory had been about water. Not the ocean or rain, but a specific creek in Norway where he'd caught trout as a boy. 'Cold water,' he'd whispered, clutching Marcus's hand. 'Makes you alive.'

Marcus placed the bear on his desk. Tomorrow was his last day—he'd finally submitted his resignation letter. No job lined up. No plan. Just the growing certainty that some holes couldn't be filled with work.

He packed his box. Photo of Sarah and him in Norway. A single pen. The bear.

Outside, rain had started falling. Real water, cold and steady. Marcus tilted his head back, let it hit his face, and for the first time in years, something in his chest felt like it was waking up.