The office empties by
seven, but the desk lamp
stays. Not because
someone forgot — because
leaving it on makes the
building feel less
abandoned.
You sit in the half-dark
with the screen still
glowing. Somewhere above,
a ventilation fan hums a
single, patient note.
The day's tasks are
done, or close enough.
But the body doesn't
know how to leave yet.
There's a difference
between finishing and
being finished. The work
is done. The pressure is
not. It sits in the
shoulders like a coat you
forgot you were wearing.
You turn off the lamp.
The screen dims. The fan
keeps humming for someone
who isn't there anymore.