What Remains of Us

Arthur stood before the mirror in room 417 of the Mountain View Lodge, adjusting his tie. The corporate retreat had been his wife's idea—something about reconnecting before the divorce papers finalized. Irony, she'd called it, though he suspected she just wanted witnesses.

He placed the hat on his head. A fedora, ridiculous and affected, but it had belonged to his father. Sarah hated it. "You're not Bogart," she'd say, "and this isn't Casablanca." She was right. Their marriage had been more like a bad sequel—familiar lines, none of the charm.

The retreat brochure had promised "transformative leadership workshops." What it delivered was fifty mid-level executives shuffling through buffet lines, eyes glazed, moving with the terrifying uniformity of the undead. Arthur watched them from the balcony, nursing lukewarm coffee, feeling utterly alone in his zombie costume.

That's when he saw the bear.

It emerged from the treeline, massive and deliberate, not like the confused animals from campground horror stories but something ancient, purposeful. It moved toward the lodge's glass doors. Inside, the CEO droned on about synergy. No one noticed.

The bear pressed its nose against the glass, watching them. Arthur watched the bear. For thirty seconds, they shared this understanding—that something wild had breached the perimeter of their carefully curated existence. Then it turned and vanished.

"Did you see that?" Arthur asked later.

Sarah didn't look up from her phone. "See what?"

"The bear. It was right there."

"You've been drinking."

"I haven't."

"You're exhausted. You look like death."

He touched the hat's brim. "I saw it."

She sighed, the sound of their十五年 ending. "Maybe you need to believe you saw something real. Maybe that's the point."

Arthur lay awake that night listening to her breathe—what remained of the woman who'd promised forever beside him in the dark. Outside, beyond the glass doors, the bear waited. He could feel it. Some things were true whether you believed in them or not.

He left the hat on the nightstand. In the morning, he'd tell her again. And again. Until she heard him, or until he became the only one who remembered being real.