The Last Living Man

Marcus stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, running fingers through thinning hair. Forty-two years old and he felt like a shell of himself—a zombie moving through routines he'd mastered but stopped feeling years ago. His iPhone lit up on the counter: another Slack message from the team in Singapore. He ignored it.

Outside, Buster—the golden retriever Sarah had left him when she moved out—whined at the door. Marcus let the dog in, the animal's enthusiasm jarring against his own numbness. Buster didn't care about the promotion Marcus had sacrificed his marriage for. The dog just wanted dinner and a belly rub, his needs simple and honest.

Something pulled Marcus toward the museum instead of the office. He'd pass it daily on his commute, never stopping. Today, he walked in.

The sphinx exhibit was nearly empty. An ancient limestone creature with the body of a lion and human face, eyes missing yet somehow still watching. Marcus found himself staring at it, struck by how absurd it must have seemed even then—a riddle wrapped in stone, demanding answers from travelers who just wanted to pass through.

His phone buzzed. Marcus hit decline.

"What are you doing?" he whispered to the sphinx. "Just sitting here for three thousand years, waiting for what?"

The guard at the exit gave him a strange look as Marcus left, but he didn't care. For the first time in months, his chest felt loose. He stopped at a park bench, watching Buster chase a tennis ball another owner had thrown, and finally turned on his phone to send a message—not to work, but to Sarah.

"I think I'm ready to live again."

The sphinx had kept its secrets. But Marcus had finally stopped asking the wrong questions.