The Last Inning

The alarm buzzed at 6:00 AM. Marcus reached for his iphone automatically, thumb already hovering over the notification dots before his eyes could focus. Another day of existing. Another day of being a fucking zombie—going through motions he couldn't remember choosing.

He scrolled through emails from colleagues who despised him, messages from Sarah's lawyer about dividing assets they'd spent fifteen years accumulating, and a calendar reminder for his father's funeral that afternoon. The screen glowed with the same blue light that illuminated every hollow moment of his life now.

In the garage, amidst boxes of half-sorted belongings, his knuckles brushed against worn leather. His old baseball glove. The one his father had oiled and shaped for him when he was twelve, the summer before everything started to fracture.

He slid his hand inside. The fit was still perfect.

The funeral was suffocating. His father's brother gave a eulogy about a man Marcus had never actually known—the stoic provider, the devoted husband. Not the man who'd stood in the driveway every night throwing fastballs that stung Marcus's palm, who'd said "I'm proud of you" exactly three times that Marcus could remember, each time mumbled so softly Marcus had almost missed them.

Back in his empty house, Marcus stood in the backyard. The grass had gone to seed. He picked up a smooth river stone he'd found near the creek. His arm remembered the motion even if his heart didn't.

He threw. The stone disappeared into the dusk.

His iphone buzzed in his pocket. Work. Always work.

Marcus pulled it out, considered the screen for a long moment, then set it on the patio table. He picked up another stone.

For the first time in years, he wasn't a zombie anymore. He was just a man in the dark, throwing stones at nothing, feeling something finally begin to loosen inside his chest.