The Goldfish's Riddle

The office aquarium held three goldfish—orange, white, and speckled—swimming their endless laps in the pH-balanced water. Maya had named them, though no one else did. The orange one was Sphinx, because she posed questions without answers. Why did David stop calling? Why did her mother's letters arrive thinner each year? Why did some people leave while others stayed, like the goldfish, circling the same small space?

At 3 AM, when the insomnia gripped her chest like a cold hand, Maya would slip into the office building with her keycard and sit before the tank. The water's hum against glass was the only sound in the empty floor. Sphinx would approach, mouth opening and closing in silent judgment.

"You're still here," Maya whispered. "I'm still here."

The building manager found her there one night, thirty-two years old in her oversized blazer, eyes red from staring at water.

"Goldfish have three-second memories," he said, as if this explained everything.

"That's a myth," she replied. "They remember. They just don't see the point of holding on."

Two weeks later, the tank was gone. A minimalistic seating area took its place—clean lines, no maintenance required. No one mentioned the fish. Corporate memory, Maya realized, was shorter than three seconds.

She found Sphinx floating in a dumpster behind the building, plastic bag knotted shut, water cloudy with finality. The mystery hadn't been why. The sphinx's real riddle was never the question itself, but how easily some questions could be thrown away.

At home, Maya filled a crystal bowl with tap water and watched Sphinx swim frantic circles, adjusting to new boundaries. They were both still here. They would both keep swimming, even if they never remembered why.