The Last Riddle

Maria stood before the bathroom mirror, her reflection fractured by years of compromise. Behind her, David slept—a peaceful, ignorant slumber that made her stomach churn.

Three months ago, she'd discovered the emails. The messages about the pyramid scheme he'd quietly funneled their savings into, the desperate promises to some faceless broker that he'd "double everything by Christmas." It wasn't even a clever scam. Just greed wrapped in desperation.

Now, at 2 AM, Maria found herself thinking about water—how it could be both life-giving and suffocating. She remembered their honeymoon in Thailand, how they'd floated in that crystal bay, David promising her the world. Now she felt like she was drowning in shallow waters.

The bathroom window revealed their backyard, dominated by the limestone sphinx David had shipped from Egypt after his "business trip" last year—a solitary excursion she now understood had been about meeting his scheme contacts, not sightseeing. The statue's weathered face held the same enigmatic smile he'd worn when explaining why their retirement fund was "temporarily illiquid."

Maria gripped the sink until her knuckles turned white. She'd already contacted a lawyer. Already found a small apartment. The only thing left was to wake him and speak the words that would end everything—a final riddle with no solution.

"Are you going to tell me the truth, or shall I destroy you with it?" she whispered to her reflection.

The sphinx seemed to smile back, its stone eyes holding secrets thousands of years old. Maria realized that some riddles were never meant to be solved. Some pyramids were built only to entomb the living.

She turned off the light and stepped into the hallway. The water pipes groaned in the walls, a mournful sound. In the bedroom, David stirred, murmuring something in his sleep that might have been her name.

Maria began to pack.