Electricity & Empty Eyes

The lightning split the sky as Maya sat in her car, the fifth time this week she'd wept in parking lots. Thirty-seven years old and she felt like a zombie—something that used to be alive but now moved through motions without pulse or purpose. Her phone glowed with another text from David: *I don't recognize you anymore.*

She'd walked out on her marriage that morning. No shouting, just the sound of her own breathing and her mother's diamond ring on the counter. Now she'd driven to the state park, where a warning sign showed a black bear silhouette: *DO NOT APPROACH.* The irony settled heavy in her chest. She'd been approaching everything wrong her entire life.

Maya stepped out into the storm-scented air. Her father had loved riddles. His favorite: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? The sphinx's answer: man. But he'd never explained what happened when the third leg collapsed beneath you.

She'd spent two decades at the same law firm, reviewing contracts until words lost meaning, becoming something that bore resemblance to a person but hollowed itself out from the inside. Her colleagues congratulated her on her "stamina." She'd smiled with eyes that felt increasingly borrowed.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the trailhead. Maya walked forward, not toward anything, just away.

In the distance, actual lightning struck a dead oak, and for a moment, the world turned white and strange and new. She thought of the sphinx again—how it had devoured those who couldn't answer. Her father's riddle had no solution anymore. She'd forgotten how to crawl.

The rain began. Maya let it soak through her silk blouse, let it ruin her makeup. Let the zombie starve. Let the bear in her chest finally wake up.

She called David from the trail. "I don't recognize myself either," she said, and for the first time in years, her voice sounded like something belonging to someone alive.