But the clock doesn’t care about nostalgia. It ticks to the hour. You punch out. The machine beeps—the same beep as always, but this one is a period at the end of a long, messy, beautiful sentence.
That was your last shift. Tomorrow, a new one begins. last shift
You walk out the door. The air smells different. Fresher. Scarier. But the clock doesn’t care about nostalgia