Wilting Flowers

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! The alarm blared, a digital shriek against the pre-dawn stillness. John Nguyen rolled over, slapping the snooze button with practiced ease. Some days he wished he could hurl the accursed thing across the room and smash it against the wall to silence it for good. He couldn't afford to do that, though. In this economy, he needed the money. He needed to go to work. Five more minutes. He knew the routine by now, the rhythm of his day. Even in the dim pre-dawn light, the familiar contours of his apartment felt comforting.

He hauled himself out of bed, the cold floor tiles a lightning jolt to his bare feet. It was always like this towards the end of fall and the impending approach of winter. He had never gotten used to it though. And he never would. A quick stretch, a few deep breaths, and he was ready. The small gym in his building was empty, the whir of the treadmill a lonely soundtrack. He ran, pushing himself, the sweat beading on his forehead as Gonna Fly Now blared in his ears, a tangible reminder of exertion. In that moment, he wasn't John Nguyen. He was Rocky Balboa.

Back in his apartment, the smell of brewing coffee filled the air. He made a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, the familiar taste grounding him. He settled at the kitchen table, phone in hand, and the endless scroll began. News cycles, social media updates, port strikes and rumors of port strikes, the digital cacophony of an insane—and inane—world. He sighed, the weight of it all settling on his shoulders.

The dishes, a small mountain in the sink, were a chore. He tackled them with methodical efficiency, the warm water a soothing balm to his cold hands. He brushed his teeth, the minty freshness a sharp contrast to the lingering taste of bitter, acidic coffee.

The shower was hot, the steam enveloping him like a warm embrace. He stood under the cascading water, letting it wash away the remnants of sleep, the lingering anxieties of the digital world. After taking a long Hollywood shower, he sat down on the porcelain throne, took care of business, and continued doom scrolling. That was always the routine. Always have, always will be. Next was the shaving and then getting dressed. He always gave himself a close shave. He hated the feel of stubble with every fiber of his being. It always made him shudder and made his skin crawl. He wasn't sure why. After shaving, he dressed in a crisp, dark suit, the familiar fabric a second skin. It was a natural part of him by now.

Before long, he was headed out the door and braving the crazy Los Angeles traffic, which felt as though it would go on forever. But finally… Northwest Passage Logistics International. The nameplate on the building was polished, gleaming in the morning sun. He walked through the revolving doors, the hum of the office a constant background noise. His desk was neat, a testament to his organized nature. He logged in, the screen flickering to life, the day’s tasks laid out before him.

Lunch was a sandwich from the deli downstairs, eaten quickly at his desk. He worked, the flow of data, the analysis, the problem-solving, a familiar and comforting rhythm. Later that day, he ordered boba and Starbucks for his team of customs entry writers as an incentive—motivation. The afternoon stretched, the clock ticking slowly, the sun shifting across the office windows.

The commute home was uneventful, the city a blur through the bus window. Back in his apartment, the to-do list was short but necessary. Laundry, a quick sweep of the living room, the mundane tasks that filled the quiet hours. He’d left them for the evening, wanting to get his workout in first thing.

The 7-Eleven across the street beckoned. He walked, the cool evening air a welcome change. He grabbed a soda and did some more grocery shopping, paid at the counter, chuckled at the surprised look on the poor overworked cashier’s face, and walked back, the familiar routine settling around him like a comfortable blanket.

He pulled his car keys from his pocket, the metal cool against his skin. The drive was short, the city lights fading into the darkness of the suburban outskirts. He turned onto a narrow road, the trees lining the street casting long, eerie shadows.

He parked at the edge of the cemetery, the silence heavy, broken only by the rustling of leaves. He walked through the wrought-iron gates, the path winding between the rows of gravestones. The air was still, the scent of damp earth and fading flowers heavy.

He stopped at a particular gravestone, the marble gleaming in the moonlight. The inscription was simple, elegant. He reached out, his fingers tracing the carved letters, the cool stone smooth beneath his touch. He lingered, his hand hovering over the name.

He leaned closer, his fingers now pressed against the stone. He could feel the coldness, the permanence, the unyielding surface. He pressed harder, a strange sense of anticipation building within him.

His hand passed through the stone.

He stared at his hand, at the stone, at the flowers carefully arranged at the base of the grave. His breath hitched, a silent gasp. He looked around, the cemetery a silent witness to his confusion.

He looked back at the gravestone. His own gravestone.

The name etched in the marble was his. The dates, the inscription, everything was his. He reached out again, his hand passing through the stone once more.

He looked down at the flowers, a collection of vibrant colors against the dark earth. He could see the slight wilt of the petals, the evidence of time passing.

He sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to echo in the stillness of the cemetery. He looked at his own name, etched in stone, and whispered, "I'm glad they still put flowers on my grave."