The Last Connection

Margaret watched the technician coil the thick black cable onto his shoulder, the motion practiced and effortless. The house felt too quiet without Arthur's humming, without his complaints about the news volume.

"Should be all set now, ma'am," the young man said, his face illuminated by the router's blinking lights. "You've got the premium package. Every channel, including the ones he watched."

She nodded, pressing her lips together. Arthur had been dead three weeks, and the cable bill was still autopaying from their joint account. She'd almost called to cancel it, but then she'd remembered—Egypt, 1972. They'd stood before the Great Sphinx together, Arthur reading from his guidebook with that earnest expression she'd fallen for. "The riddle of existence, Maggie," he'd said, squeezing her hand. "That's what it's all asks us."

What had she answered? She couldn't remember anymore. Memory was becoming its own kind of sphinx, posing questions she couldn't answer, stripping away the details she thought she'd hold forever.

Outside, thunder cracked—a sudden, violent sound that made the technician flinch. The storm had been building all afternoon, the sky bruising itself purple and gray. Margaret walked him to the door, pressed a twenty into his palm despite his protests.

Lightning struck the old oak in the yard as she turned back to the living room. The flash whited out the windows, etched the silhouette of the tree's branching arms onto her retina. When her vision cleared, she saw it—the television had flickered to life on its own.

Arthur's channel. The news, same volume he always kept it. The anchor's mouth moved soundlessly, then—

"...in other news, local authorities report that..."

Margaret sank into Arthur's recliner. The leather still held his shape. She'd never told him what she'd thought at the Sphinx, standing in the blowing sand with his palm against hers. She'd thought: this is enough. This man, this moment, this question without needing an answer.

But she hadn't said it. She'd made some joke about the camel ride instead.

The cable connection hummed behind the television, alive and invisible. Margaret closed her eyes and let herself pretend, just for tonight, that the world still held its riddles intact—that somewhere, in the space between lightning and thunder, between what was said and what was meant, Arthur was still waiting for her answer.