I helped load the last box into the moving truck. It was small and heavy with old letters.
Inside, I saw a bookmark from Readers' Den, the bookstore that closed ten years ago. He had given it to me when I started at the bank.
We used to fish every Saturday before his divorce. Now he says the river just reminds him of what he lost.
That box was the last thing leaving. After twenty-one years of sharing a counter, I was the one staying.
He hugged me and said, 'Take care of my window.' I nodded, but my throat was tight.
I thought about all those years of counting change, of watching the one tall building cast its shadow. We were the youngest when we started, by eleven years each. Now I'm the last.