The Last Sunset

The corporate pyramid loomed above the city skyline, a glass monument to Marcus's thirty years of climbing rungs he'd stopped caring about a decade ago. At fifty-two, he felt like a zombie—moving through motions, signing documents, attending meetings where nothing real was ever said.

'You should come, Marcus,' Elena had said that morning. She was the only friend left from his early days, before the promotions hollowed him out. 'Padel tournament at the club. Saturday. You need to get out of that apartment.'

He'd almost said no. But something in her voice—a note of genuine concern—made him agree.

Now, standing at the edge of the club's terrace, watching the sun dip below the horizon in a wash of orange and bruised purple, Marcus felt something shift. The color reminded him of the first sunset he'd watched with Sarah, before the cancer took her three years ago. He'd stopped watching sunsets after that.

Elena found him there, two glasses of prosecco in hand. 'You're not thinking about work, are you?'

'Maybe I'm thinking about stopping,' he said, the words foreign on his tongue. 'The job. The pyramid. All of it.'

She didn't look surprised. 'I've been waiting for you to say that for five years, Marcus.' She clinked her glass against his. 'To not being zombies anymore.'

The orange light deepened to indigo. Somewhere beyond the tennis courts, laughter echoed. For the first time in years, Marcus turned toward the sound instead of away from it.