The Last Afternoon

Where to go from here or is here enough

He noticed the clock first.

Not because it was late. It was not. It was only a few minutes past one, the long stretch of the afternoon still ahead of him. What caught his attention was the sound it made when it clicked forward. A soft tick, almost polite, like it did not want to interrupt anything important. He had heard that sound every day for years without really hearing it. Today it landed differently.

He leaned back in his chair and let his eyes wander across the room. The desk had a shallow scratch near the front edge where he had dropped a stapler once. The filing cabinet to his left was still missing a handle. Someone had said they would replace it months ago. Maybe longer. No one ever did. He had stopped expecting it.

Outside the window, the parking lot shimmered with heat. A few cars sat baking in the sun, their windshields flashing white when clouds slid past. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang and rang until it stopped. He waited to hear footsteps, but none came.

He folded his hands together and rested them on his stomach. The familiar weight of the day pressed in, but underneath it was something else. A steadiness. The kind that comes after a decision has already been made and there is nothing left to argue with.

He thought about how many afternoons he had spent in this chair. Too many to count. He could picture himself from years ago, younger, more restless, tapping his foot and checking the clock every ten minutes. Back then, he was always looking ahead, always waiting for the day to be over so something else could start. Somewhere along the way, the waiting had stopped. The days had simply stacked up.

A voice drifted in from the break room. Someone laughing. Someone else complaining about the coffee again. He almost smiled at that. The coffee had always been bad. That had never changed.

He stood and walked to the window, resting his palm against the glass. It was warm. He watched a man cross the lot with a cardboard box tucked under his arm. The man fumbled for his keys, set the box on the hood of his car, then stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at nothing. The sight of it tightened something in his chest, though he could not have said why.

When he turned back to his desk, he saw the envelope he had placed there that morning. Plain. Unmarked. It blended in so well he had almost forgotten it was there. He picked it up, weighing it in his hand. It was lighter than he expected. Funny how something so small could carry so much of a day inside it.

A knock sounded at the doorframe. Soft. Hesitant.

“You got a minute?” she asked.

He looked up and nodded. “Sure.”

She stepped in, closing the door behind her. They stood there for a second, neither of them speaking. He had worked with her long enough to recognize the pause. She felt it too, whatever it was. The air had shifted, and they were both aware of it, even if neither wanted to be the first to name it.

He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “Have a seat.”

As she sat down, he glanced once more at the clock. The tick sounded again. Polite. Steady.

The afternoon was moving forward, whether he followed it or not.

When you are ready, we can continue straight through this scene and let the conversation unfold, or we can pause and tune the voice tighter if you want it leaner.

She sat with her hands folded in her lap, the way she always did when she was not sure how long she would be staying. He noticed that, too. He noticed everything now. It was like the edges of the day had sharpened.

“So,” she said, then stopped. She glanced at the desk, the envelope, his hands. “I heard you were asking about the Henderson file.”

“I wrapped it up,” he said. “There was not much left to do.”

She nodded, though that was not what she had come in for. They both knew it. She shifted in the chair and crossed one ankle over the other. The chair gave a small squeak. He had meant to oil it once. Never got around to it.

“You usually tell me when you close something out,” she said. Her voice was steady, but quieter than normal. “I just thought it was strange.”

He smiled, but it did not quite rise all the way. “Guess I slipped.”

Silence settled between them. Not awkward. Familiar. The kind that comes from years of shared space and shared days. The clock kept up its soft ticking, marking time neither of them mentioned.

She leaned forward slightly. “Is everything okay?”

There it was. The opening she was giving him. He could step through it or let it close on its own. He looked at her face and saw concern there, real concern, not polite interest. That made it harder.

“Everything’s fine,” he said. The words came out easily. Too easily. “Just one of those days.”

She studied him for a moment longer than necessary. He wondered what she saw. Maybe the same man she had always known. Maybe something looser around the edges.

“You’re not much of a 'one of those days' person,” she said.

He let out a quiet breath. “People change.”

She smiled at that, but there was sadness in it. “Some do. Some just get tired.”

He did not argue. He reached for the envelope and slid it a few inches closer to himself, not opening it, just touching it. The paper made a soft sound against the desk.

“I wanted to tell you before it became official,” he said.

Her shoulders tensed, just a little. “Official how?”

He met her eyes. He did not look away. “Today’s my last day.”

The words sat there between them. He half expected the clock to stop, or the noise from the hall to disappear, but nothing did. The world kept its shape.

She blinked once. “Last day as in vacation, or last day as in last day.”

“Last day,” he said.

She leaned back, exhaling slowly. “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

She shook her head once, not in disbelief, more like she was resetting herself. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t know how.”

“When did you decide?”

He thought about that. About how there had not been a single moment, just a quiet accumulation. “A while ago,” he said. “Today just felt like the right place to stop.”

She looked past him toward the window, then back again. “You’re good at this,” she said. “You matter here. You know that.”

“I did,” he said. “That was part of the problem.”

Her brow furrowed. “Where are you going?”

He smiled again, this time softer. “Somewhere else.”

She gave a short laugh. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

They sat with that. Outside, a car door slammed. Footsteps echoed down the hall. Someone coughed. Ordinary sounds, still doing their jobs.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said finally.

He nodded. “I know.”

She stood, smoothing her skirt. “I hope whatever you’re chasing is worth it.”

He stood as well. “I’m not chasing anything,” he said. “I’m just done standing still.”

She hesitated, then stepped forward and hugged him. It was brief and careful, the kind of hug meant to leave room for dignity. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright, but she did not let the tears fall.

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

“You too.”

She opened the door, paused, then looked back at him one last time. “Don’t disappear completely.”

“I won’t,” he said, though he was not sure what that meant yet.

When the door closed, the room felt larger. He sat back down, picked up the envelope, and opened it at last. He did not read it again. There was no need.

The clock ticked. The afternoon moved on.

So did he.

Is there more?

Yes. There is a little more. Just enough to let it settle and close the door behind him.

He placed the letter back into the envelope and slid it into his desk drawer. Not because he needed it there, but because that was where it belonged until the very end. He straightened the stack of papers on his desk, even though no one would notice if he did not. Old habits liked to have their say.

He shut down the computer and waited for the screen to go dark. The reflection that stared back at him looked older than he felt and calmer than he ever remembered being. He did not try to read too much into it. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on, feeling the familiar weight settle on his shoulders one last time.

Before leaving, he took a slow look around the room. The missing handle. The scratch on the desk. The chair that squeaked. None of it asked him to stay. None of it accused him of leaving. It was just a room. It had done its job.

He turned off the light and stepped into the hallway. A few people nodded as he passed. One waved. Someone asked if he would be in tomorrow. He smiled and said no, not tomorrow. That seemed to satisfy them. Most endings go unnoticed unless you point them out.

At the door, he paused with his hand on the handle. The building hummed behind him, steady and unconcerned. For a moment, he felt the pull of turning around, of stepping back into the afternoon he knew so well. The feeling passed.

Outside, the air was warmer than he expected. The sun sat lower now, softening the edges of everything. He walked to his car and set his keys on the roof, just like the man he had watched earlier. He stood there for a moment, breathing, letting the day finish what it had started.

Then he picked up the keys, got in, and drove away.

The afternoon ended.

So did that part of his life.

And that was enough.