Riddles Before Dawn

Maya's golden retriever, Barnaby, nudged her hand with his wet nose at 4:17 AM—same time every morning, as if he could sense when her insomnia tipped from restlessness into something uglier. She'd been up since two, running scripts through her mind like a sphinx posing impossible riddles: What happens when you leave someone who never loved you enough? How do you explain to your mother that the marriage she called 'perfect' was actually twelve years of emotional neglect?

She pushed back the covers and went running. The pre-dawn streets were empty save for a fox darting across the road, its brush like a flame against the dark. Maya ran harder, pushing her body toward exhaustion because at least then she'd feel something real. Her coworker Jess had told her yesterday, 'You're like a zombie, Maya. You show up, you answer emails, you go home.' Jess meant it kindly, but the truth stung.

At home, Barnaby greeted her with his usual unconditional enthusiasm. Unlike her husband—ex-husband now, the papers signed yesterday—this dog had never made her feel guilty for needing too much. She scratched behind his ears and the familiar rhythm calmed her racing heart.

The first gray light of dawn crept through the window. Maya realized she'd been answering the wrong riddle all along. The question wasn't what she'd lost or how she'd explain it to anyone. The question was what she would build from the pieces. Barnaby licked her hand, and for the first time in months, something like hope stirred beneath the exhaustion.