It was nearing the end. The slow-motion unraveling of everything the office had once stood for could be seen in the dwindling attendance at the weekly mindfulness sessions. The chairs were now largely empty, except for the occasional lone figure seated in meditation, silently resenting their own presence there.
It had all begun so innocently—so spiritually. The company had invested heavily in what they had called “The Sacred Five Minutes of Calm.” The idea was simple: every Thursday at precisely 3:17 PM, everyone would stop what they were doing, sit in a circle, and connect with their inner truths. Of course, most people used this time to check their emails or nap, but the idea had been nice in theory.
Now, after the great shift in power that had been Tam’s rise, even the most faithful participants in the mindfulness movement had begun to question its purpose. No one could quite articulate it—there was no need to. The once-strong currents of vague spiritualism had been replaced by the cold, hard logic of deadlines, timelines, and actual deliverables. Efficiency had taken root, and no one could look at a session about "Recalibrating Your Heart Chakra to Maximize Synergy" with the same enthusiasm as before.
Tam didn’t even know about the yoga sessions anymore. He wasn’t invited. His simple solution-oriented approach to life didn’t leave much room for downward-facing dog. Why bother when you could just fix the server? And for that matter, why bother “feeling” the task at hand when you could just do the task?
But the others? They hadn’t entirely given up. Not yet. They knew, deep down, that this was their last chance to salvage what remained of the office’s original mission: not productivity, but emotional fulfillment.
And so, on a crisp Thursday afternoon, they gathered—one last time—in the yoga room. The lights were dimmed, the incense gently wafted through the air, and the soothing playlist that had once been a beloved companion now felt like a ghost of a time long past.
Elias, ever the showman, had been assigned the role of guide for the session. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, or perhaps just the emotional weight of carrying the shattered remnants of his vision. He stood at the front, hands clasped, wearing the uniform of someone who had long since lost touch with their purpose.
“Let us begin,” he said, his voice a hollow echo in the cavernous room. He gestured for everyone to take their places on the mats, a few of which still had creases from previous use. It was a ritual—barely maintained but still clung to with the last shred of dignity.
“Take a deep breath,” Elias continued, his words stretching out, more for his own benefit than anyone else's. “And let go of... everything that isn’t you.”
No one responded. No one needed to. They were all too busy wondering if this was truly the end of something important—or just the end of their ability to pretend.
Tam, walking by the open door on his way to his desk, stopped and looked in. He didn’t need to be asked to join. He already knew what was going on inside. A room full of people unwilling to face the truth of their own stagnation, desperately clinging to their yoga mats like life preservers, their minds lost in nostalgic reverence for a time when nothing ever truly got done.
He shook his head, muttering to no one in particular, “You can’t meditate your way out of failure.”
But something strange happened. As the others took their positions, sitting cross-legged, closing their eyes, and beginning their final half-hearted attempts to “connect,” a small flicker of doubt appeared in their minds. For a moment, just a brief flicker, they wondered:
“Could it be… too late for this?”
Tam’s words weren’t profound. They weren’t meant to be. But in a place where everything had been couched in abstract metaphors and existential struggle, that simple, blunt sentence had the power to strike at the heart of it all.
The last few yoga poses were nothing more than the final gestures of a dying dream. The team held their positions—some squirming uncomfortably, others pretending to find solace in the very stretches they once used to feel enlightened. Elias, however, had taken it too far. He wasn’t performing a yoga pose anymore. He was performing an idea of yoga. A curated, branded vision of a self-actualized corporate spiritualist. His pose was stiff, unnatural—less one of peace and more of the quiet resignation of a performer without an audience.
But then, something else happened. In that silence, that final exhale, the last spark of whatever was holding them all together disappeared. The company had trained its employees to perform acts of emotional theater. But Tam? Tam had never learned that lesson.
He didn’t need to.
So, he turned back to his desk. He didn’t even look at the yoga room as he walked away. He was already moving on to the next problem, as always. The server needed a reboot. That was enough.
And outside, the sun set on another office, just like all the others. It had no particular significance. It was merely the end of another day, as unremarkable as any other.
But for a few brief moments, those who remained—who had sat on their mats, clinging to their last shred of corporate spirituality—knew that what they were experiencing was not a moment of clarity, not a peaceful finish, but the inevitable fading away of something that had long since outlived its purpose.
A few minutes later, the yoga room was empty. The mats were rolled up and placed back in the closet. The incense burned itself out. The playlist was silenced. And as the office doors clicked shut, they knew. There would be no more pretending.
Let me know when you're ready for Chapter 7, where we can explore "The Final Metrics of Apathy"!
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