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"Lunch at Bear Hill" is a quiet, reflective narrative that explores memory, aging, and the soft finality of moving on. It weaves together a present-day moment—a shared lunch between coworkers—with echoes of a forgotten office romance, gently unearthing the emotional layers beneath ordinary routines. Through a thoughtful structure that transitions from lunchtime nostalgia to a private act of closure, the story evolves into something quietly profound: a meditation on how we carry the past, and how we choose to let it rest.

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"Lunch at Bear Hill"
By Harry Arabian

 

It was 1 p.m. on a golden spring Wednesday, and Bear Hill felt like escape—the kind of day that persuades you to leave your desk behind and let nature shoulder your worries for a while. I decided to have my lunch in the Northwoods clearing, where new picnic benches stood under a canopy of maple trees, dappled in sunlight and the scent of fresh earth.

When I reached the well-groomed picnic area, I spotted Geoff already seated at one end of a table. He was deep in thought, bent over a small, worn book—not his usual science fiction paperback. Geoff, a well-read fellow with a weakness for obscure authors and bold coffee, barely looked up as I sat down and opened my lunchbox.

 Marie, my wife, had packed it, as she always did: a leafy green salad, two slices of sourdough holding together a modest slice of turkey breast, and a bright orange vinaigrette she’d whisked together the night before. As I poured the dressing over the greens, I squinted to read the title of Geoff’s book.

That’s when I realized—it wasn’t a novel.

“Bit of a surprise,” I said, nodding toward the worn cover. “You decided to stir up old memories?”

Geoff chuckled. “It’s Kathy’s old diary. She left it on the dining table. I figured I’d thumb through it before returning it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “She let you read it?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t say not to. It’s actually fascinating—loaded with old stories and photos from the office. She documented everything. I’d forgotten half these people.”

Just as I took my first bite of turkey sandwich, he added with a sly grin, “It even covers the time we were dating.”

I nearly choked.

“Seriously?” I asked, wiping my mouth. “Does it cover those couple years?”

He nodded and turned the book toward me. “Page 85. Recognize this?”

There it was: Geoff in a wild Hawaiian shirt, flashing a ridiculous grin at an office party. His arm casually slung around someone just out of frame.

I squinted, then laughed. “You’re still wearing that shirt?”

He looked down and smirked. “It’s my emergency shirt. I wear it when I run out of clean ones.”

“Looks like it could write its own romance novelette,” I said. “Any future plans for it?”

He shook his head, still smiling. Geoff had long since moved on. That short-lived office romance with Kathy had faded into memory. A few years ago, he’d married Marsha—our cheerful front office receptionist—and they now had two soccer-loving boys. On Saturdays, I’d often see them on the field, Geoff coaching and Marsha handing out her signature thin orange slices.

Finishing the last bite of my sandwich, I leaned back and sighed. “Listen, office Romeo, time to move on. No need to kindle old fires. Let’s tie a red ribbon on that chapter.”

Geoff glanced at the diary.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said, reaching for it gently and tucking it into my lunchbox. “I’ll drop it off at Kathy’s cubicle. Quietly. She’ll never even know it was gone.”

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Epilogue: The Quiet Walk
The office was silent that evening—machines powered down, chairs tucked in, keyboards sleeping beneath screensaver stillness. I walked through the rows of cubicles with the diary in hand, its red ribbon tied neatly like a soft punctuation mark at the end of an old sentence.

When I reached Kathy’s desk, I set the journal gently in her mesh tray. No note. No explanation. Just closure.

The overhead fluorescents hummed softly, casting a warm amber glow on the carpet and desk corners. I paused for a moment, then turned and walked down the hallway, my lunchbox swinging loosely by my side.

Outside, the sky was fading into violet and gold. Bear Hill stood quiet in the distance. Funny how a simple lunch could become a bookmark in a longer story. Some chapters, I realized, don’t need rewriting—they just need respect. And a place to rest.

I reached the parking lot, glanced once more at the quiet building behind me, and drove off into the stillness of the evening.

 Final Scene: The Ribbon and the Morning Light
The next morning, just after 8:15, Kathy arrived as she always did—coffee in one hand, lunch tote in the other, the faintest haze of sleep still in her eyes. She slid into her cubicle and paused mid-motion.

The diary was sitting there, quiet and familiar. She hadn’t seen it in years.

She set her coffee down slowly. The red ribbon was still tied around it, a quiet gesture—no dramatics, no message. Just care.

She ran her fingers along the worn leather spine before opening it. On the first page, her younger handwriting greeted her:
“For future me. Don’t forget who you were—or who you could’ve been.”

Kathy smiled faintly. She flipped through the pages, past birthdays, potlucks, awkward meetings, and heartfelt tangents. Then—page 85. There he was. Geoff in that shirt. That day. That version of them.

She let out a soft laugh. Not sad. Not regretful. Just… remembering.

Then she closed the book, untied the ribbon, and slid it into her drawer.

Outside her window, the sun had fully risen. Life stirred again.

A memory had returned home. And without a word, it had been honored, smiled at, and gently let go.