Riddles in the Ash

The baseball card had been in his father's wallet for thirty years, edges soft as old money. Marcus held it between thumb and forefinger, theiphone buzzing forgotten on the kitchen counter. His father had been dead three weeks, and Marcus was still finding these small artifacts—like the man had planted them deliberately, a sphinx's riddles from beyond the grave.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open, sudden and violent. The storm had been threatening all afternoon, a pressure building behind Marcus's eyes. His father's golden retriever, Buster, nosed at his hand, seeking comfort Marcus couldn't give.

"You want to go out?" Marcus asked, already knowing the answer. Buster was his father's dog, really—never quite bonded with Marcus, tolerated him like a disappointing substitute teacher.

They'd played catch once, Marcus and his father. Marcus had been twelve, already too old for the lessons his father was determined to teach. The baseball had sailed past his glove, hit the garage door with a hollow thwack. His father's face had crumbled—not anger, but something worse. Resignation.

Theiphone lit up again. Sarah, asking if he'd sold the house yet.

He hadn't. He kept finding reasons to delay. Another box to sort through, another memory to catalogue. His father had lived his life like a puzzle missing pieces, and Marcus had spent his own trying to find them.

Buster whined, and Marcus opened the back door. The dog trotted into the rain, tail between his legs. Marcus watched him from the doorway, the storm finally breaking overhead. Lightning illuminated the yard, harsh and brief as a camera flash. For a moment, Buster looked exactly like his father had the last time Marcus saw him—small against the dark, waiting for something that wasn't coming.

Marcus closed the door against the storm. He picked up hisiphone, typed a response to Sarah. Then he called a realtor.

The baseball card went into his own wallet. Some riddles weren't meant to be solved—only carried.