The sleek boardroom gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights. Investors sat around a polished oak table, papers and tablets in hand. Sam sat at the head, his fingers steepled, jaw tight.
"Samuel," one investor began, voice smooth but firm, "automation will increase profits and market share. It's the logical step."
Sam looked around the room, meeting each other's expectant gaze. "I respect that," he said slowly, "but Torres & Sons isn't just about profit. It's about craft, legacy, and people. You can't automate soul."
A murmur rippled through the room. The business manager leaned in, whispering, "We can't afford to fall behind."
Sam clenched his fists beneath the table. "I'll not sacrifice the artisanship my family built for quick gains."
After the meeting, he stepped out into the cool evening, the city's neon glows a blur. He drove to the cemetery on the outskirts, the place where grief and hope collided.
Standing before his father's grave, he spoke softly, "Dad, I'm trying to honor you and Mom. Sometimes it feels like I'm carrying too much, but I won't let go."
His voice cracked, the years of silent sorrow pressing heavily on his chest.
A breeze whispered through the trees, as if answering his unspoken fears.