A cold draft blew through the room. He drew his coat tighter and pulled his hands farther into the cuffs. The drapes rippled.
He looked out the window. The skeleton—crisscrossing steel girders flaking rust and paint chips—lingered as testament to fairer days. A time when he had been the decision maker, and his business had trudged onward like a perpetual motion machine.
The sun was setting. The light dimmed.
He turned and saw the letter on the table. Written in his secretary’s own hand. What had happened to loyalty?
She’d be back, he knew. He’d show them all.
Picture is by Servando.