The Last Riddle

Elena stood before her bathroom mirror at 2:00 AM, watching her own reflection like a stranger. The corporate lawyer staring back—sensible blazer, designer hat—that wasn't her anymore. She'd become a zombie, really. Moving through mergers and acquisitions on autopilot, signing documents that dismantled lives she'd never touch.

Her phone buzzed. David.

"You coming back to bed?"

"In a minute," she lied. They hadn't touched in three months. Their marriage had become something she swam through, mouth opening and closing, forgotten before the thought completed—like a goldfish in a bowl, seven-second laps of affection and resentment.

The sphinx had been David's anniversary gift last year. An antique bronze paperweight he'd found in some dusty shop. "Because you love riddles," he'd said, smiling that smile that used to reach his eyes. Now it sat on her desk, inscrutable. Silent.

Tomorrow she'd tell him she was leaving the firm. Maybe leaving him too. The bear of it—his disappointment, her mother's voice, the mortgage—had pinned her for years. But something had broken when she'd overseen the acquisition of that children's hospital last month. Hadn't even blinked.

She caught her own gaze in the mirror. Really looked.

"Okay," she whispered.

She took off the hat. Let down her hair.

The sphinx on her desk wouldn't answer anything. But maybe she didn't need riddles anymore. Maybe she just needed to be something alive again.