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"The Red Hawk" is a contemplative short narrative that explores themes of transition, memory, and renewal through the lens of an aging engineer—Herald—as he and his team leave their long-occupied lab for a modern facility. Set against the backdrop of rural fields and symbolized by the titular hawk, the story blends emotional realism with subtle natural imagery to frame a quiet, personal reckoning with change.

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"The Red Hawk"

By Harry Arabian

It was our last day in the lab.

The farewell unfolded under a wide sky, next to fields sweet with strawberries and rustling with the chatter of sycamore leaves. For over two decades, our white-walled building had stood proudly, its frame humming with the focused energy of minds designing machines—some so tough they earned reputations as indestructible, built for the gritty, tireless world of point-of-sale counters.

In the early morning light, hawks circled overhead, as they always had—guardians of the fields, shadowed by their nocturnal cousins, the owls, who kept the rodent population in check. We liked to think they were our sentries too, keeping watch over our experiments, our long hours, our quiet triumphs.

That day, we packed up our legacy: drawings, logbooks, prototypes. Labeled in black marker—‘2,’ ‘3,’ ‘4,’ ‘5,’ and ‘Lab’—the boxes carried more than contents. They carried history. The numbered ones were standard equipment and files. 'Lab' held the soul of our work.

All of it was bound for sleek new offices of glass and chrome in the business district. We'd been acquired—rescued, some said. Others weren’t sure. Promises of revival and resources rang bright, but uncertain. Our journey would follow—by truck for the artifacts, by car for us, the engineers and test technicians.

After one last walk through the echoing halls, we locked the doors and left the building to the silence of the weekend. It was just a few days before Labor Day. None of us spoke much as we drove away, but each of us glanced back in our mirrors.

The Tuesday after the holiday, we regrouped in the new building. It was bright and clean, filled with the sterile scent of fresh paint and untouched furniture. My boxes—‘3’ and ‘Lab’—waited by the corner office window.

Box ‘3’ was heavy with memory: photos of company picnics, letters of congratulations, an engineering logbook with sketches that had become patented designs. ‘Lab’ held the tactile remnants of decades—custom tools, test jigs, prototypes scuffed from use and love.

I lifted the lid slowly. Dan, my young lab assistant, stood by, eyes wide with curiosity. Together we placed each item into its new home, arranging them like sacred artifacts. The sterile lab began to feel like ours.

I turned to Dan, brushed the dust from my palms, and said, “Time to make new memories.”

Dan, who’d been gazing out the east-facing window, turned with sudden brightness. “Come look, Herald. A red hawk—he’s followed us. He’s perched in the olive tree.”

I joined him. There it was: regal, still, eyes sharp.

“Same notch in the wing,” Dan whispered, as if he recognized it.

I smiled. “Time to settle,” I said softly. “And make new memories.”

And somehow, I believed it.