The morning sun slipped through the blinds of Richard Cole’s office, tracing soft lines across the stack of papers he had not touched in weeks. The building was quiet, almost too quiet for a Friday. For thirty-five years he had walked these halls, first as a salesman, then a manager, then the owner. Now the silence felt like an echo of something already gone. He stood by the window, looking out over the city that had grown around him. New towers replaced the old factory blocks. Even the skyline had retired and started over.

The employees had gathered earlier, clapping politely as he gave a short speech he barely remembered. There had been coffee, some laughter, and a few forced smiles. The young man who would take over shook his hand too firmly. Richard had nodded, told him to take care of the people, then stepped back as if he were handing over not a business, but a part of himself he no longer recognized. When the door closed, it was just him, the ticking of the clock, and the slow hum of an air conditioner that sounded tired too.

He sat down at his desk. The wood had faded where his wrists used to rest. He traced the marks with his fingers, remembering deals won and nights spent alone with the numbers. The company had been his mountain. He climbed it with ambition, built it with stubbornness, and reached its peak long ago. But no one told him that staying on top would be harder than getting there. Now every step felt like walking down the other side, careful not to slip on memories.

A small photo frame sat by the monitor. His late wife, Helen, smiling with a paper cup of coffee in her hand. It was taken during their first office renovation, paint still fresh on the walls. He whispered her name, not to call her back but to remind himself she had been real. He had promised her they would travel more, maybe see the Rockies again, maybe drive up the coast. But promises had a way of getting lost in board meetings and deadlines.

By noon he locked the office for the last time. The key felt heavy in his pocket. He walked down the hallway, noticing things he had ignored for years—the faint stain on the carpet, the uneven hum of the elevator. The building itself seemed older than him, though he was sixty-seven and his knees made sure he didn’t forget it. Outside, the spring air smelled clean. He took a long breath, the kind you take before something begins.

At a nearby diner he ordered lunch alone. The waitress recognized him, said she had read about his retirement in the local paper. “Congratulations,” she said, pouring him coffee. He smiled, unsure if congratulations was the right word. He didn’t feel like a man who had finished something. He felt like one who had misplaced his purpose. When the meal came, he barely touched it. Instead he took out a small notebook and wrote one line: Appalachian Trail, April 14. It had been an idea for months, something he mentioned half-jokingly to friends. But now, sitting there with his company gone and the day wide open, it became a decision.

The thought of hiking scared him a little. He had never been the outdoors type, not since college. His back wasn’t what it used to be, and the last time he climbed anything taller than a staircase was probably in Colorado two decades ago. But maybe that was the point. He needed something that made him breathe again, something that reminded him of his limits. Maybe even something that hurt. You couldn’t think about old deals and empty offices when the mountain demanded every ounce of focus.

That night, he packed his old hiking boots, a jacket that still smelled faintly of campfire, and a map he bought from a travel store years earlier. He spread it across his kitchen table. The lines twisted through the states like veins of memory. Each stop had a name he wanted to know—Springer Mountain, Blood Mountain, Fontana Dam. He read them like promises to himself. His phone buzzed with a text from his son: Dinner next week? He typed Sure, then deleted it. He wasn’t sure of anything yet.

The house was quiet when he turned off the lights. He looked around at the furniture Helen had chosen, the photos of his company picnics, the awards that no longer mattered. On the fridge, a small magnet still held a faded postcard of Yosemite. Helen had sent it from a trip with her sister, long before the cancer. He touched the edge of the card and smiled. “It’s time,” he said softly. Not to her, not to anyone, just to the air that carried her memory. Tomorrow he would drive north. The road would lead him to the mountains, and maybe, if he was lucky, to the part of himself he had left behind.

As he lay in bed, sleep came slowly. The city murmured outside, cars passing like waves against the shore. For the first time in decades, he didn’t have to wake up early. He didn’t have to check reports or answer calls. He closed his eyes, imagining the sound of wind through pines, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots, and the distant rhythm of something vast waiting for him beyond the years.