short fiction · 2026-10-28

The Auditor's Lunch Break

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The auditor eats a sandwich on a park bench at 12:47 p.m., watching a pigeon argue with its reflection in a puddle. His briefcase rests beside him, locked, containing three thousand ledgers — each one a life, each entry a debt of silence. He does not open it. The turkey and swiss is good; the bread holds together. A woman passes pushing a stroller, humming something his mother used to sing. He wonders if her ledger has an entry for the lullaby she never finished, the night the fever broke and she simply stopped singing. The pigeon wins its argument. The auditor folds his wrapper, checks his watch: 12:52. Five minutes until he must return to the office where the lights never flicker and the pens never run dry. He thinks about the entry in his own ledger, dated yesterday: "Did not call Clara. Said tomorrow. Tomorrow is not a day." He stands, briefcase in hand, and walks back toward the building with no windows.