The Last Riddle

Emma found the bottle of vitamin D pills in his coat pocket—that was the moment everything crystallized. She'd suspected for months, but the evidence in her hand made it undeniable. Her husband of seventeen years was aging faster than she was.

Their golden retriever, Bull, sensed the tension first. The old dog abandoned his bed to press his wet nose against Emma's trembling hand.

"Marcus?" she called into the study where he'd been hiding since dinner.

He emerged looking like a sphinx carved from regret—inscrutable, ancient, burdened by riddles he couldn't solve. The orange light of sunset carved hollows under his eyes.

"You're taking them again," she said, not asking. "The memory vitamins."

"They're vitamins, Emma. Not a crime."

"You forgot Bull's birthday. You forgot our anniversary dinner reservations. You forgot your sister's name at Christmas." Her voice cracked. "Last week you asked me what street we live on."

Marcus slumped against the doorframe. "I'm trying to fix it."

"Or hide it."

"What would you have me do?" The sharp edge in his voice softened. "I'm forty-eight years old, Emma. My father couldn't remember his own children by fifty. I'm terrified."

The confession hung between them like smoke. Bull whined softly, pressing closer to Emma's legs.

"We could get tested," she whispered. "There are treatments now."

"And if it's irreversible? If in five years I don't know who you are?" Marcus's eyes glistened. "I wanted to fix it first. Give us more time before the sentence comes down."

Emma crossed the room and took his weathered hands in hers. "You're not a riddle to be solved alone." She kissed his knuckles. "We face the sphinx together or not at all."

Outside, the last orange light of day surrendered to twilight. In the gathering dark, Marcus finally let himself be held, while Bull settled contentedly at their feet, oblivious to everything except that his pack was together.