Riddles at Home Plate

I felt like a straight-up **zombie** shuffling through the hallway. Three AP exams, two essays, and my brain had officially left the chat. The fluorescent lights buzzed like a dying wasp, and honestly? Same.

"Maya! Coach is gonna kill you if you miss **baseball** practice again," Jenna yelled, already scrolling through her phone. "Varsity tryouts are next week."

I muttered something that sounded like agreement but felt like a lie. Truth was, I'd been ghosting practice for two weeks. Ever since I realized swinging a bat didn't spark joy anymore — it just felt like performing.

When I got home, my neighbor's **cat**, Barnaby, was sitting on my porch like he owned the place. That orange jerk had an attitude problem, but honestly? Relatable. I flopped down beside him, watching his **dog** brother, a golden retriever named Buster, chase his tail in circles across the street. Barnaby watched with absolute judgment, and I felt that in my soul.

"You ever feel like you're just... going through the motions?" I asked him. "Like, everyone thinks you're one thing, but you're actually something else entirely?"

Barnaby blinked slowly.

Then it hit me — I'd been staring at the **sphinx** statue in the Weavers' front yard for like, five minutes straight. It had been there since forever, this weathered stone thing with riddles carved into its base. The Weavers were weird like that. But for the first time, I actually READ one of the riddles:

"I have cities, but no houses. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?"

I sat up. A map. The answer was a map. And suddenly, I was mapping out my own life — realizing I'd been living someone else's coordinates.

Barnaby stretched, stood up, and trotted toward the baseball field behind our houses. Buster abandoned his tail chase to follow. I watched them, these two totally different creatures, just doing their thing.

"Alright," I said to nobody. "Maybe it's time to draw my own map."

My phone lit up with another text from Jenna. Practice started in twenty minutes. I took a deep breath, called Jenna back, and told her I wasn't coming. Not because I was quitting baseball necessarily, but because I needed to figure out if *I* even liked it.

For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like a zombie anymore. I felt awake. Confused, yeah. But awake.