Tempus Resurgens

The clock on the wall read 2:57 PM. Margaret Ashworth studied its methodical movement with the same analytical focus she'd once applied to quarterly reports and market projections. The second hand's steady march reminded her of stock tickers – those digital harbingers of fortune that had guided her decisions for four decades at Ashworth Pharmaceuticals.

Now, in this sterile room with its institutional whites and greys, another number demanded her attention: Protocol 65. The newest initiative from the Department of Dignified Transitions, launched six months after the Compassionate Choices Act passed with unprecedented bipartisan support.

"Your generation has given so much," the young specialist had said during Margaret's intake interview, her smile bright and practiced. "You deserve to choose your own ending."

Choose. Such a clever word. Like "retirement package" and "corporate restructuring" – euphemisms that masked harder truths.

"Are you ready, Mrs. Ashworth?" Dr. Peterson's voice carried the same smooth assurance as the DDT promotional videos. He adjusted the silver monitoring band on her wrist – standard issue now for all Protocol 65 participants.

Margaret nodded, her silver hair catching the afternoon light that filtered through privacy glass specially designed to maintain the "dignity of the transition process." At sixty-five, she'd built an empire, weathered market crashes, outmaneuvered corporate raiders. Now she would do one last service for her family: spare them the burden of watching pancreatic cancer reduce her to a shadow.

"The first compound is a proprietary blend," Dr. Peterson explained, though Margaret had memorized the process weeks ago. "Developed by NewLife Technologies, actually – one of your company's recent acquisitions, I believe?"

"James handled that merger," Margaret said, thinking of her son's confident presentation to the board. "He has a vision for the future."

"The next generation always does." Dr. Peterson's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's progress, isn't it?"

The first injection slipped into her veins like silk, like the first sip of the champagne they'd shared when James made partner at Sterling & Walsh. Her mind drifted to the lawsuit he'd won last year – something about pension obligations and "reasonable accommodation" for aging workers. The details escaped her now.

Voices drifted in from the hallway – James and Catherine, speaking in those carefully modulated tones they'd perfected during charity galas and shareholders' meetings.

"The timing works perfectly with the Newman deal," Catherine whispered. "Once Protocol 65 is complete, we can move forward with everything. The divorce, the restructuring..."

"Mother never updated the trust parameters after Rachel was born," James replied. "With the company shares transitioning and no specific provision..."

"Foster care is better than letting your parents raise her," Catherine's voice hardened. "They'd fill her head with outdated ideas about corporate responsibility and workers' rights. Like they did with you before Whitman straightened you out."

Margaret's heart stuttered. Rachel. Her six-year-old granddaughter who spent every Sunday afternoon in the solarium, learning the Latin names of plants and asking questions about the photographs of smiling workers from the company's early days.

"Why did you give them houses, Grandma?" Rachel had asked last week, pointing to a faded picture of the employee housing program Margaret's father had started.

"Because people need roots to grow strong," Margaret had answered, watching Rachel trace the image with small fingers.

"Dr. Peterson!" The words felt thick in Margaret's mouth. "Stop. Please."

"The initial compound is already active, Mrs. Ashworth. The process is designed to be irreversible after stage one, to prevent any distressing last-moment confusion. NewLife's protocols are quite specific about..."

"No!" Margaret fought against the growing heaviness in her limbs. "My granddaughter... the company... I have to..."

The room tilted. Through the gathering fog, Margaret remembered an article from the Sterling & Walsh legal archive: Otto von Bismarck's masterpiece of social engineering, convincing his rivals that sixty-five was the natural time to "step aside for progress." Now, generations later, Protocol 65 offered the same seductive whisper: Make room. Let go. Choose dignity over decline.

"You're like the old oak tree, Grandma," Rachel had said last Sunday, looking up at the ancient giant that had weathered countless storms in Margaret's garden. "The one that gives shade to all the little trees and keeps them safe when the wind blows too hard."

Somewhere in the growing darkness, alarms began to sound. Margaret heard Dr. Peterson shouting for naloxone, heard running feet and urgent voices. Through the chaos, another memory surfaced: a confidential memo she'd glimpsed on James's tablet during their last family dinner. Something about NewLife's "urban renewal initiative" targeting her company's old housing developments.

They'd been so clever, so patient. Waiting for her diagnosis. Presenting Protocol 65 as a gift, a choice, a dignified exit. All while preparing to dismantle everything she'd spent a lifetime protecting.

Someone was injecting something into her IV – once, twice, three times. Her heart raced against the darkness, each beat a refusal, a rebellion, a declaration of war.

*     *     *

Beep.

Darkness.

Beep.

A space between sounds where Margaret willed her finger to move.

Beep.

Nothing.

Beep.

The smallest twitch – or perhaps just the memory of movement.

Beep.

Rachel's soft breathing from the visitor's chair, clutching the stuffed owl. On her small wrist, the NextGen Wellness band pulsed with a gentle blue light.

Beep.

This time, Margaret was sure – her index finger moved. A microscopic victory against the darkness.

Beep... beep.

The monitor's rhythm quickened, barely perceptible. Like the first drops of rain before a storm.

"BP showing minimal fluctuation," a nurse whispered near the door. "Could be autonomic response..."

Beep... beep.

Another twitch. Stronger? Or just desperate hope?

Beep... beep.

In Margaret's mind, folders opened in sub-basement three. Papers rustled. Evidence waited.

Beep... beep.

Rachel stirred, tears still damp on her cheeks. "Grandma?"

Beep... beep... beep.

The finger moved again. Margaret felt it. Knew it. Unless...

Beep... beep... beep.

Somewhere in the city, computers hummed in NewLife's servers. Deletions scheduled. Traces waiting to be erased.

Beep... beep... beep.

Movement. Definite this time. Like an oak's roots cracking concrete. Like truth breaking through lies.

Unless it wasn't.

Beep... beep... beep... beep.

Rachel's monitoring band pulsed blue, then yellow, then blue again.

Margaret's finger twitched.

Or maybe it was just a shadow.

Beep... beep... beep... beep.

The machines kept their vigil in the darkness, counting moments that stretched like uncertainty itself. Each sound a question, each silence an answer that might or might not have been there.

The night deepened. Machines beeped. A finger might have moved.

And somewhere, in the space between certainty and darkness, Margaret Ashworth either died or began to live again.

Beep... beep... beep... beep...