This is my very first FanFiction. As in, ever. So I hope you enjoy it – review? :) It takes place about twenty years from where the show is now. What's happened to everyone?

Disclaimer: I don't own The Office. There. Glad we got that out of the way.

My first sighting of the old man was by the side of the gravel road, near a sign that boasted the words "SCHRUTE FARMS" in faded, all-caps lettering. He was knelt over what appeared, at first, to be just a rock. And I would have kept going, except then he turned around. The face was one of the saddest I'd ever seen. My five years of practicing psychology told me that he was an honest man, well-intentioned and forgiving.

I decided to stop. I pulled over, but left the car running, and hopped out, raising puffs of dust in the Pennsylvania summer air.

"Hey," I called. "You alright?"

He shook his head, and when he spoke his words came out nasally. "No."

I then saw that the rock was a tombstone, simple and square. The carved words read-

"This is Dwight Schrute's so-called grave. And I would like to tell you that if you are alive and reading this, then I AM NOT DEAD."

Sheesh. Talk about denial.

I placed a hand on the old man's back and knelt down so I was at eye level with him. "Who was he?"

"He," he choked out, "he was my coworker. My trusted companion, my – my – I'm sorry, I can usually think of an analogy. But anyways, it couldn't have happened like this. It shouldn't."

My thoughts faltered, as his words brought up stirrings of my own regretful heartaches. But I was in Dr. Hawthorne mode now, and pushed my own "Jen" thoughts aside.

"I know it's hard to accept, but I'm sure he knew that you loved him."

"God, I never told Dwight I did. Besides, Ryan was always the office gay." He snorted. "I remember one time, oh, about twenty years ago when I received a serious foot injury from my Foreman Grill, he got a concussion while going to drive me into work. And when we took him to the hospital, he couldn't bear for me to leave him."

Something about this conversation seemed vaguely familiar. I couldn't place where I had heard it, though, and decided it wasn't important, disregarding it altogether. I just focused on trying to cheer the man up.

"You must have had some good times together."

"Oh God, yeah." I finally saw a smile.

"Well, just try to relive those, alright? And I know it's hard now, but the grief will pass. Would you like to talk about him – Dwight – some more?"

He shook his head. "No, not right now."

"That's fine. But listen," I continued, fumbling around in my pocket, "Here's my business card. I'm Dr. Jen Hawthorne, a psychologist. But I worked in Human Resources and was trained in grief counseling before that."

His face took on a form of repulsion, and I started to ease away. "Something wrong?"

The expression cleared. "No – no, I'm fine." He took the card and stood up. "I should probably get home." His eyes looked as though they would spill tears at any minute.

I patted his back. "Call me anytime… um…"

"My name's Michael. Michael Scott."

Again, the name rang a small bell. I wrestled with my normally good memory for a few moments, then gave up again.

I opened the door to my car and waved. "You need a ride?"

"No, my girlfriend's picking me up."

But he was lying. As I drove away, I saw him in my rearview mirror, walking alone to the east. He reached into his pocket and withdrew what appeared to be a bobble head toy. Drying his eyes, I saw him clutch it until I had to turn away.