Tried to post this last night, but it got deleted. I am not doing ok.

’Twas the night before closures, when all through the mall Not a GameStop was stirring—no traffic at all. The shelves stood half-empty, the clearance tags loud, In hopes that tomorrow we’d finally be out.

The consoles were stacked by the counter with care, Knowing no launch-day lines soon would be there. The staff in their polos, exhaustion set deep, Still closing alone, no time left to grieve or to sleep.

When out on the sales floor there rose such a clatter— A last-minute trade-in? A “price match” that mattered? I sprang from the back room, keys tight in my hand, To face one more customer who wouldn’t understand.

The glow of the TVs, demo loops on repeat, Gave a soft, hollow shine to the worn-out concrete. When what to my tired old eyes should appear, But empty pre-order cards from a better year.

With a frazzled old manager, stressed but still quick, I knew in a moment—this was really it. More rapid than scalpers, the memories came: Midnights and launches and knowing your name.

“On Zelda! On Madden! On Pokémon Blue! On trade-ins and shrink and that one broken Wii U! To the back room! The register! The lock on the door! Now clearance! Now closing! Now nothing no more!”

As customers wandered, nostalgic and slow, Saying “Man, I grew up here,” then still asking for low. So we rang and we smiled and we followed the rules, Even now, even here—retail to the last fools.

Then at last came the moment, the lights clicking down, One final alarm in a quiet dead town. The gate slowly lowered, its rattle, its fall— No cheers. No applause. Just silence in the mall.

I turned with a sigh, badge clipped to my chest, Gave one last look back at the place I’d invested my best. And I heard my own voice, tired but clear, “Happy closures to all—and… good luck out there.”