Riddles of the Afterlife

Maya stood before the bathroom mirror at 2 AM, staring into eyes that looked back like something risen from the grave. Three years of mergers and acquisitions had left her a zombie in a designer suit — animated, yes, but not quite alive. She'd completed the acquisition of Sphinx Technologies yesterday, a company whose name mocked her daily. The sphinx had riddles; she had only the same question on an infinite loop: *Was this it?*

In the bedroom, David slept with the terrifying peace of someone who'd never questioned anything. She'd tried, once, to explain the hollow feeling in her chest. He'd held her and promised a weekend away, as if three days in Napa could mend what three years of corporate cannibalism had consumed.

She padded to the kitchen, bare feet against cold hardwood, and poured wine that had turned to vinegar. The bottle sat next to a framed photo from better times — graduation, her eyes bright with impossible ambition, ready to bear the weight of the world.

The world had not needed her to bear it. It had only needed her to optimize it.

Tomorrow's headline would celebrate the deal. Her mother would call, proud in the way that felt like a knife. Maya would nod through the congratulations, pour another coffee, and bear the crushing lightness of having everything and nothing.

Outside, the city glowed like a creature that never slept, and she thought about the sphinx's punishment: devouring herself for eternity. At least the sphinx had the dignity of a myth.

Maya just had a corner office and a retirement plan.

She set down the glass. She could wake David. She could scream. She could finally be the one to ask the riddles instead of answering them.

Instead, she watched the sun rise over the skyline, feeling something ancient and heavy begin to stir in her chest — something that remembered what it was to be hungry.

The zombie opened her briefcase. It was time to get to work.