I stopped doing it. Mentoring, I mean. For like… six months now? Something like that. Before that, it was my thing, my gig. The old man, the grizzled veteran, showing the fresh faces the ropes. Had a real knack for it, or so they said. Used to take pride in it, actually. My little kingdom on the factory floor, a legacy of competence. Funny, the things you tell yourself to get out of bed. Then something just… snapped. Not like an explosion, more like a slow, dull thud. Woke up one day and just couldn’t. Couldn’t fake the enthusiasm, couldn’t summon the patience for the endless questions, the fumbling fingers, the blank stares. Felt like my spirit was being leeched out of me, drip by agonizing drip, every time I had to explain why you don't stick your hand in the press when the red light's flashing. Basic stuff, right? But for some, it's like teaching a cat to play chess. So I pulled back. Subtly at first. “Go ask Frank,” I’d say, or “The procedure's in the manual, mate. Read it.” Then less subtly. I’d make myself scarce, disappear into the back office when I saw a new hire wandering near my section, looking lost. The younger supervisors picked up the slack, bless ‘em. Or maybe they just thought I was finally losing my marbles. Probably both. And for a while, it worked. Felt… lighter. Like I’d shed a heavy pack I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. More energy for my own work, less mental overhead. Started getting home before dark for the first time in years. Even slept better, those deep, dreamless sleeps you get after a proper day’s graft, not the twitchy kind where you’re mentally replaying every mistake from the shift. It was almost peaceful. Then last Tuesday, this new kid, barely out of school, name of Miguel… he was on the old Series 7 stamper. A machine so basic it practically operates itself if you just load the stock right. I saw him from across the floor, all thumbs, trying to line up a sheet. He looked flustered, getting that pinched look around the eyes. He’d been trying for five minutes, maybe more. Normally, I’d have been over there in a flash. “Alright, mate, what’s the holdup? Here, let me show ya.” That sort of thing. But I just… stayed put. Sipped my coffee. Watched him. He ended up jamming it. Bad. The whole production line had to stop. Sounded like a dying elephant, that stamper, when it seized up. Management went ballistic, naturally. Miguel looked like he was gonna cry. Head hung low, shoulders slumped. The supervisor who *should* have been watching him—he’s the one who’s supposed to be handling the new guys now—he chewed Miguel out in front of everyone. A real public flogging. I heard the whole thing, of course. Saw Miguel’s face as he was getting reamed out. And I felt… nothing. Not anger, not pity, not even a flicker of the old mentor-instinct. Just a kind of detached observation. Like watching a nature documentary. There was a part of me, a tiny, almost imperceptible part, that thought, *Serves him right for not asking.* And then, right after that, another thought, a much louder one, that said, *You could have prevented that.* And that’s where the sick feeling comes in. It’s not a sharp pain, not a gut punch. It’s more like a low-grade nausea. A pervasive wrongness. It’s not the guilt I expected, the kind that makes you want to apologize or make amends. It’s just this… dull, heavy brick in my chest that doesn’t move. Like I’m watching myself from a distance, watching this person I’ve become, and I don't recognize him anymore. This isn't the soldier who looks out for his squad, the manager who builds up his team. This is just… a guy. A guy who let a kid fail because he couldn't be arsed. I just hope it doesn’t get worse. This emptiness. This apathy. It’s… it's unsettling. It’s like the lights are on, but nobody’s home. And the scariest part? I can still laugh. I can still crack a joke. I can still pretend everything’s fine. The performance is almost perfect. Almost.