He slumped asleep, on the couch facing nowhere, in the fake library, no small talk left inside. He's far from his Powerpoints now, voicemail unchecked, a mind done. There was a day he was master of all, a time for polish, a time for whiteboards and muffin meetings. Moments in a recycled calendar, moments already decomposing in a landfill of daytimers and deadlines. The children are off doing their busy thing, his only duty now is to fill the days quietly, fussless, an affordable wait. It's a nice place, they keep the chemicals hidden, the ambulance ramps discreet, the exit code only 6 digits. The dust spirals soft in the sunlight, settling gently, respectfully on his shoulders. The lightest of indignities.