Jim is gone. They broke down his cubicle walls, and fed his files into a shredder. They broke down his desk and took the pieces to a cage in the basement; the grooves where its legs stood have started to fade. Our group divided his workload, and his paycheck went back into the company coffers.
I heard his wife has already gotten engaged to another man, and Jim's daughter is calling him daddy. They’re selling his house and buying a new one, on the hill, away from the encroaching criminal element. The old car he kept in their garage to tinker with couldn’t be made to run, so they junked it.
Without his cube I can see the southern sky through the window, and found myself drinking Earl Grey where his chair sat, which I spilled. When I looked down I saw the only remains he left behind, a worn patch of carpet behind his desk.