The Last Living Man

The office has become a graveyard where the corpses forgot to lie down. Not literally — the fluorescent lights still buzz overhead, computers still process data, phones still ring with automated urgency — but something essential has evaporated from the air. The people move like animated corpses, eyes glassy, movements mechanical.

At 3 AM, I examine my reflection in the restroom mirror. The thinning hair at my temples tells the story of sleepless nights and silent compromises. Pull the fedora lower. It's become my shield, my disguise against the gradual decay of everything I once believed possible.

I've been running for three years now. Not from anything specific — just continuous motion forward. Every morning boarding the 6:15 train, entering the building by 7:45, performing mechanical tasks until my vision blurs. Running from the question that's settled like a tumor in my gut: Is this everything worth experiencing?

At home, Barnaby — my cat — watches me with ancient wisdom in his golden eyes. He holds more vitality than everyone on the fourth floor combined. He curls against my chest as I stare at the ceiling, listening to city sounds, wondering if everyone else feels this particular loneliness or if I've somehow missed the memo about how to be satisfied with slowly dying.

Then Elena transfers into accounting.

She wears her chestnut hair in loose waves, carries herself like someone who hasn't surrendered to routine's slow erosion. Her hazel eyes perceive everything. She notices my fedora, my worn shoes, the exhaustion no one else acknowledges.

"You're running from something," she observes one afternoon, leaning against my cubicle wall. Voice soft, not accusatory. "But where are you hoping to arrive?"

The question stops me cold. Because among these workplace zombies, someone finally noticed a person still breathing.