The Last Riddle

Margot stood at the kitchen counter, her hands submerged in cold water, scrubbing spinach leaves with methodical precision. The funeral had ended three hours ago, but she couldn't bring herself to leave David's apartment yet. His goldfish, a bulbous orange creature he'd ironically named Ozymandias, circled its bowl in the corner, its tiny mouth opening and closing in silent judgment.

"You were always shit at keeping plants alive," Sarah said from the doorway. She held two wine glasses, the red liquid catching the dying light. "But somehow that fish survived three boyfriends and two cross-country moves."

Margot dried her hands on a dish towel. "David had a way with things that should have died. He was like a sphinx, sitting on his terrace, watching the city deteriorate while he made proclamations about art and mortality and the nature of suffering. We all just nodded and accepted our fates."

"He asked about you," Sarah said, setting the glasses on the counter. "Last week. He wanted to know if you were still writing."

The spinach lay dark and slick on the cutting board. Margot picked up a knife. "I told him I was taking a break. That was two years ago."

"He knew you weren't. He knew you were just... stuck."

Margot began chopping, the blade hitting the wooden board with a rhythmic thud. "He never said anything."

"David didn't intervene. He believed in letting people arrive at their own ruin or salvation. Said it was the only honest way to live." Sarah stepped closer. "He left something for you. In the nightstand."

The knife paused. "What?"

"I don't know. He made me promise not to open it." Sarah's voice softened. "He also made me promise to tell you something: 'The riddle isn't what you've lost. It's what you're too afraid to choose.'"

Outside, rain began to fall, water streaming down the windows like tears the apartment had been holding back for years. Margot looked at Ozymandias, still swimming in endless circles, trapped in glass that distorted everything beyond it.

"I should go," she said, but she didn't move.

"You should," Sarah agreed. "But you won't. Not tonight."

Margot dropped the knife, spinach scattered across the counter. Some questions didn't have answers, only the slow understanding that the sphinx had been whispering the truth all along: the riddle was never about finding the right answer—it was about being brave enough to ask yourself what you actually wanted.