The Last Goldfish at Sphinx Inc

The glass bowl sat on Elena's desk like a forgotten monument. Inside, a single goldfish—she'd named him Barry—swam in endless circles, his orange scales catching the fluorescent hum of the office. Three months ago, there'd been three. Now just Barry, swimming his lonely laps while Elena pretended to work.

She felt like a zombie most days. Not the movie kind—groaning and brain-hungry—but the corporate kind: hollowed out by quarterly targets, soul eroded by Zoom meetings where nobody spoke but everyone nodded. She'd catch her own reflection in the bathroom mirror: eyes flat, skin grayish under the unforgiving lights, moving through motions she'd performed a thousand times before.

"They're restructuring again," Marcus whispered, leaning against her cubicle wall. He wore that ridiculous hat every day—a fedora that should've died with the jazz age. Elena never asked why. Some mysteries were better unsolved.

" sphinx Division?" she asked.

"Gone. Everyone."

Barry surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent judgment. Elena wondered if goldfish felt existential dread, or if they just swam.

That afternoon, the email arrived. Her division too. Severance package. Two weeks. Clean break.

She packed her box. The hat Marcus left behind sat on his empty desk. She took it—why not, some small rebellion. Grabbed Barry's bowl. Running toward the elevator, heartbeat loud in her ears, she realized: she wasn't a zombie anymore. She was whatever came after.

Outside, the sky was violently blue. She walked until her feet hurt, Barry swaying in her arms, until she found a park pond and lowered him into water wide enough for real swimming. He vanished instantly—dark flash, gone.

"Good luck, Barry," she said.

She put on the hat. It didn't fit, tilted crooked. Someone laughed. She kept walking.