I used to think my life was a set of pipes. Neat, copper, all going somewhere, doing what they were supposed to. You put in the work, you tighten the connections, you make sure there are no leaks. And for forty-five years, that’s what I did. Every morning, the clink of my toolbox, the smell of solder, the hum of traffic on the way to a new job. That was me. That was my name. The plumber. Now the toolbox sits in the garage, gathering dust. The uniform, folded in a drawer. And my days… they just stretch out, empty, like a house after the water’s been shut off. No flow, no pressure. Just a quiet drip from a faucet I can’t seem to fix. My wife, she used to say I was married to my job. A joke, mostly. But sometimes, when she’d ask about her day, or just want to sit on the porch and watch the sunset, I’d be thinking about a burst pipe, a clogged drain, a quote I needed to send. Always something more urgent, something that couldn't wait. And she’d just sigh, a little sound, like air escaping from a tire. I never really noticed how often she sighed until she wasn’t here anymore to make the sound. Now the house is so quiet, the TV’s the only one talking. I mean, I don't even — whatever. It’s just me and the hum of the fridge, and sometimes, late at night, I hear a little drip somewhere, and I just… I can’t bring myself to find it. I always pictured retirement as a big, easy chair. Sun on my face, a good book. All the time in the world. But it’s not like that. It’s more like standing in an empty room, and all the walls have been taken down, and you don’t know where anything goes anymore. And all those pipes, all that work… what was it all for? I fixed so many things for other people. Leaky faucets, overflowing toilets, cold showers. But the one thing I couldn’t seem to fix was… this. This feeling. Like I left the biggest leak for last, and now I’ve got no tools left. And it’s just… flowing.