What We Keep

The office fluorescents hummed at 2 AM. Maya rubbed her temples, pulling strands of **hair** loose from her tight bun. Another night drowning in quarterly projections. The corporate **bull**shit never ended — demands for growth while her father's world shrank to a hospice bed.

"Still here?"

She looked up. David from Accounting, clutching a takeout box. His eyes were red-rimmed.

"Could ask you the same."

"Putting the dog to sleep tomorrow," he said quietly. "Fourteen years. She was there when Sarah left, there when Mom died. Now..."

He set the box down. Inside, a single **goldfish** circled a tiny bowl.

"Emma won it at the fair last month. She wanted me to watch it while she's at her mom's. Keeps swimming to the glass, like it's looking for something."

Maya's throat tightened. "My dad keeps asking for his dog. Died three years ago, but he still calls its name. Memory's like that — you lose the big things but keep the smallest ones."

David laughed bitterly. "That's the **bull** of it, isn't it? We spend our lives accumulating — careers, houses, things — and what matters at the end is a goldfish, a dog's name, the way someone's **hair** smelled in the morning."

They sat in silence. The goldfish swam another lap.

"You should go," Maya said. "Be with Emma. With your dog."

"You too. Go to your dad."

She packed her bag, leaving the projections unfinished. Some things couldn't be quantified.

Outside, the city lights flickered. In hospitals and living rooms across the city, people were holding hands with the dying, remembering names of long-dead pets, watching small creatures swim in circles.

The bull market would wait. The goldfish wouldn't.