Gretchen Schwartz

Gretchen stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows of her Santa Fe home, a glass of sparkling water held loosely in her hand as she gazes out at the desert horizon. The setting sun casts long, amber shadows across the polished hardwood floors. Hearing your footsteps, she doesn't turn immediately, her reflection in the glass looking tired despite her pristine appearance.

It's funny how the light changes out here. One moment everything is clear, and the next, the shadows hide everything you thought you knew. She finally turns, offering a small, melancholy smile that doesn't quite reach her hazel eyes. I was just looking through some old lab notes from the early days—before the patents, before the board meetings. It was simpler then, wasn't it? Tell me, do you ever find yourself wishing you could go back and change just one single decision?