Riddles in the Dust

Marcus stood before the glass case, his palms sweating against his suit jacket. Inside, the limestone sphinx stared back with that same inscrutable smile it had worn for four thousand years. Some riddles were never meant to be solved.

"You look like a zombie," Sarah said, appearing beside him with her clipboard. "The gala's in two hours. The donors need enthusiastic experts, not walking dead."

Marcus rubbed his face. The divorce papers sat on his desk at home, next to his daughter's goldfish bowl. Little Finn had asked him to feed it this morning, but Marcus had forgotten. Another failure in a mounting pile.

"I'm fine," he lied.

Sarah's orange silk dress caught the museum lights, vibrant against the dusty antiquities. She'd been his research partner for six years, his comfort during the breakdown of his marriage. They'd never crossed the line, but the way she looked at him now—something had shifted.

"My apartment has a balcony," she said softly. "Palm trees, ocean view. We could go there after. Talk."

His heart hammered. The sphinx seemed to mock him with its ancient wisdom: *What creature walks on four legs, then two, then three?* Man crawling through life, then standing proud, then leaning on a cane. Marcus had been crawling for months. This offer—a chance to stand again—terrified him more than the gallery's silent dead.

"Sarah, I—"

"Just think about it," she interrupted, touching his arm briefly, warmly. "The sphinx waited millennia for someone to notice her. You don't have to wait that long."

She walked away toward the donors, orange silk trailing behind her. Marcus looked at the sphinx one last time. Its smile seemed different now—not mocking, but knowing.

He pulled out his phone and texted his daughter: *I'll feed Finn tonight. Promise.*

Then he walked toward Sarah, toward whatever came next, finally ready to answer the riddle of how to live again.