What We Keep

The bull statue on Marcus's desk had gathered dust since the funeral—a heavy brass thing with horns polished dull from his grip. Six months of working alongside his empty chair, pretending the corporate takeover wasn't eating alive everything they'd built together.

"You should leave," Sarah said, finding him in the office at midnight again. She'd stayed late too, though she'd never admit it was for his sake. "This place is gutting us, David. The new VP's a bulldog, and you're not built for this kind of fight anymore."

She was right. The merger had brought in executives who saw people as expendable. Last week, David had watched three colleagues he'd hired cry while packing boxes. Marcus would've torn them apart with that lethal charm of his, would've fought until they offered him the damn company just to make him stop. But Marcus was dead. Aneurysm. Gone between one breath and the next.

"I can't," David said. "Not yet."

Outside, rain sheeted against the glass. The building felt like a tomb. His phone buzzed—his sister, reminding him about the dog. Buster, Marcus's elderly Lab, had been failing for weeks. David had been promising to come over, say goodbye, but every time he tried, he couldn't make himself do it. Some things were too final.

"Go," Sarah said softly. "Before you become someone else entirely."

He drove through the storm to Marcus's house, the one David had sold to strangers two months ago because he couldn't bear to walk those rooms alone. Buster was with his sister now, curled on a blanket by the fireplace. The old dog lifted his head at David's approach, tail thumping weakly against the floor.

"Hey, buddy," David whispered, sinking to his knees. Buster's muzzle was gray, his breathing labored. But his eyes—those same amber eyes that had watched Marcus build their business from nothing—still held recognition. Still held love.

The vet had said it would be tonight. David stayed, stroking that soft fur, remembering all the mornings Marcus had shown up with coffee stains on his shirt and Buster hair on his suit. Remembering the friend who'd coaxed him through his divorce, who'd bet everything on David's crazy ideas, who'd never once asked for anything in return.

When it came, it was peaceful. Buster sighed once and was still.

David sat there a long time. Then he stood, walked out to his car, and called Sarah.

"I'm done," he said. "Find us something new."

Outside, the rain had stopped. For the first time in six months, he could breathe.