The Last Question

Maya discovered the bug behind her bedroom mirror on a Tuesday, while running the coaxial cable for her new security system. Her hands stilled around the sleek black wire, her breath catching as she noticed the faint glint of a lens tucked into the frame's carved wooden sphinx—her one indulgence from that Egyptian exhibit last year.

Three months of her life, captured.

She sat on the edge of her bed and thought about Sam. Her best friend. The person who'd held her hair back when she was sick, who'd ghostwritten her performance reviews, who knew she still slept with her childhood blanket. The person who'd given her the mirror as a housewarming gift.

"You're overthinking," she whispered to herself. But she wasn't.

The secure drive on her desk contained sensitive corporate data—nothing that would interest a friend. Unless that friend was a corporate spy.

Maya's mind replayed every conversation from the past year. The probing questions about her company's encryption protocols. The interest in her work schedule. The casual mentions of competitors. It had seemed innocent at the time. Now it felt like a carefully orchestrated performance.

She called Sam.

"Hey!" Sam's voice was warm, familiar. "I was just thinking about you. Want to grab dinner?"

"The mirror," Maya said, her voice steady despite the chaos in her chest. "When did you plant it?"

Silence stretched between them, the kind of silence that contains volumes.

"Maya, I—"

"Corporate espionage? Or personal?" She needed to know which betrayal she was mourning.

"Both," Sam said quietly. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Maya said, though she wasn't sure it was true anymore. "I trusted you."

"I know," Sam said. "I'm sorry. Truly." The line went dead.

Maya sat with her phone in hand, the sphinx watching from above, its painted smile mocking her certainty. In the end, the riddle wasn't what mattered. The answer was simple: some questions, once asked, can't be unasked. Some bonds, once severed, can't be rewoven—not even by all the cables in the world.