The aroma of stale coffee hung in the air, a constant reminder of Mr. Abernathy’s presence. Or, rather, the absence of it. Eleanor had arrived precisely at 8:00 AM, as she had for the past seven years, expecting to find him hunched over his overflowing desk, muttering about deadlines and market fluctuations. Instead, his office was empty, stripped bare save for a single, forlorn potted fern. A hastily scribbled note lay on the desk, a generic "Best Wishes" signed with a flourish that felt pointedly impersonal. Eleanor picked at a loose thread on the ancient, threadbare rug. Her stomach clenched.
She slammed the door of his office, the sound echoing in the silent hallway. The fern seemed to mock her, its green leaves vibrant and untouched. He’d never even mentioned retiring. Not a hint, not a passing comment about his grandchildren, nothing. The utter disregard for her felt like a physical blow.
She stalked back to her own cubicle, the clicking of her heels a furious staccato. She deleted the email she’d been writing, a draft report on the latest quarterly earnings. He would have critiqued it, helped her refine it. Now, who would she show? Who would give her their opinion? A sharp pain flared in her chest.