The Weight of Routine
Thomas took the stairs instead of the elevator. Third floor, like always, but today each step felt deliberate, ceremonial. The stairwell smelled the same as it had in 1994 when he'd first climbed these steps as a nervous 28-year-old with a degree he wasn't sure he deserved and a tie his mother had picked out.
His office was at the end of the hall. Not a corner office, he'd never wanted that. But it had a window that looked out over the parking lot, and on clear days, you could see the mountains in the distance. He'd watched those mountains through thirty winters, thirty springs. He'd seen snow on their peaks while eating lunch at his desk. He'd watched thunderstorms roll in during late meetings.
The desk was mostly cleared out. He'd been taking things home gradually over the past two weeks, a photo frame here, a coffee mug there, so today wouldn't feel so final. It hadn't worked. Today felt final anyway.
His hand brushed the surface of the desk. The same desk they'd given him as a junior analyst. The same desk where he'd drafted the Henderson proposal that saved the company in 2008. The same desk where he'd sat, stunned, when Margie in HR called to tell him his daughter had been in a car accident. She'd been fine, thank God, but he'd never forgotten how Margie had stayed on the line with him until he could breathe again.
Ghosts in the Hallways
Thomas walked through the quiet corridors, touching doorframes, counting ceiling tiles. The conference room where he'd sweated through his first big presentation. The break room where he'd met Ellen from accounting, who became Ellen Johnson two years later, and who'd left her own job to raise their kids, a sacrifice he'd never properly acknowledged until it was too late to change it.
The supply closet where old Pete used to hide during fire drills because he hated standing outside. Pete had retired fifteen years ago. Died nine years back. Thomas still thought of him every time he smelled copier toner.
He ended up in the break room, making a pot of coffee from the ancient machine that everyone complained about but no one ever replaced. The ritual was muscle memory. Scoop, scoop, fill the reservoir, press the button. Wait for the gurgling sound that meant it was working.
On the wall hung a bulletin board covered in flyers, sign-up sheets, a yellowed newspaper clipping about the company softball team's championship win in 2003. Thomas was in that photo, grinning like an idiot, holding a trophy the size of his torso. His hair had been darker then. His smile had come easier.
The Morning Rush
By 8:30, the office had filled up. People kept stopping by Thomas's desk with cards, handshakes, awkward hugs. Someone had ordered a cake. Someone else had made a banner that said "Happy Retirement, Tom!" even though no one had called him Tom in thirty years.
"We're really gonna miss you, Mr. Johnson," said Jenny, the newest member of his team. She'd been here two years. She still called everyone Mister or Miss, which Thomas found both endearing and slightly exhausting.
"You'll be fine," he told her. "Better than fine. You've got good instincts."
She blushed and looked at her shoes, the same way he used to do when old Mr. Hartley had complimented his work. Hartley had been the one to hire him. Had seen something in that nervous kid with the bad tie. Had given him chance after chance to prove himself.
Thomas realized with a start that he'd become Hartley. Somewhere in the past thirty years, he'd gone from the young one needing guidance to the old one giving it. The thought made him both proud and terribly sad.
Five O'Clock
The party wound down around four. Thomas spent his last hour at his desk, pretending to check email, really just sitting with the silence. At 4:45, he opened his drawer and pulled out the one thing he'd saved for last.
It was a framed photograph, faded at the edges. His first day on the job. He stood in front of the building, squinting into the sun, his stupid tie askew. He looked terrified and hopeful and impossibly young.
He looked like someone with his whole career ahead of him.
Thomas tucked the photo into his bag and stood up. His knees protested. His back cracked in three places. The body that had bounded up those stairs thirty years ago now took the elevator without shame.
In the lobby, he stopped. The security guard, Marcus, who'd worked the front desk for the past decade, stood up when he saw him.
"Mr. Johnson." Marcus extended his hand. "It's been an honor, sir."
Thomas shook his hand, then surprised them both by pulling him into a brief hug. "Take care of the place," he said.
Outside, the sun was setting behind those mountains he'd watched for thirty years. He stood on the sidewalk, bag in hand, badge in pocket, and let himself feel it. The loss. The relief. The strange lightness of being done.
A car honked. Ellen was waiting in the parking lot, waving through the windshield.
Thomas Johnson took one last look at the building that had held his career, his struggles, his small triumphs. Then he turned and walked toward his wife, toward home, toward whatever came next.
The door clicked shut behind him.