Are you sure you want to move this shortcut to the Recycle Bin?

He felt a phantom twinge in his shoulder—the same one that had ached from seventy-hour weeks. He remembered the client’s whiny voice, the impossible deadlines, the way his wife had started eating dinner alone. The shortcut wasn't a program. It was a gravestone for his former self.

The icon flickered once, a brief spasm of resistance, and then it was gone. There was no fanfare, no sound effect, no confetti. Just a sudden, empty space where the stress used to be.