The Walking Home

The fluorescent lights hummed their endless complaint, matching the ache behind Marcus's eyes. Three years of sales targets and quarterly projections had transformed him into something that moved and spoke but barely felt—a corporate zombie in a tailored suit. He caught his reflection in the elevator's brushed steel: gray skin, eyes that had forgotten how to focus, a mouth that defaulted to a customer-service smile. Somewhere along the way, between the performance reviews and the prestige presentations, he'd begun to decompose from the inside out.

The key turned in the lock with a sound that used to mean sanctuary. Now it just meant more of the same, just different lighting. But then Barnaby—his golden retriever with the ridiculous optimism of creatures who'd never read a performance review—thumped his tail against the laminate floor. The sound was so absurdly genuine that Marcus felt something crack inside his chest.

He'd almost forgotten to feed the animals again. The guilt was a sharp, welcome pang—better than the numbness that had been his constant companion since the promotion. Luna, his sister's cat who'd been staying with him since the accident, watched him with that particular feline judgment that said: I know what you're becoming, and I'm not impressed.

Marcus dropped to his knees, burying his face in Barnaby's warm fur. The dog smelled of real things: sunshine and dirt and enthusiasm, everything his job required him to excise from himself. Luna wound through his legs, her purr a vibration against his shins, demanding dinner with the entitlement of those who've never questioned their worth.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, not sure if he was apologizing to the animals or to himself. "I didn't mean to become this."

Barnaby licked his cheek, the rough tongue dragging across skin that hadn't known genuine touch in months. Luna meowed, impatient and alive and utterly unimpressed with his existential crisis.

Marcus stood up slowly, joints popping, and for the first time in three years, he felt something stir beneath the gray—a pulse, a heartbeat, the beginning of waking up. The zombie wasn't dead yet. And maybe, just maybe, neither was he.