The Palm Reader's Riddle

The desert heat pressed against my neck as I stood before the Great Sphinx, its weathered stone gaze seeming to mock my own lack of answers. Three months since I'd left the firm, since Sarah had walked out, and here I was in Egypt, chasing something I couldn't name.

My father used to say baseball was life in miniature - standing alone at the plate, heart pounding, waiting for a pitch you couldn't predict. He'd taught me to hit in our backyard until my palms blistered, until the rhythm became second nature. Now those same hands shook as I checked my phone again.

"You're running," Dr. Hale had told me during our last session. "From the grief, from the questions you won't ask yourself."

She was right. I'd spent decades running - through law school, through corporate litigation, through a marriage I'd neglected. Running until I couldn't feel the ground beneath my feet.

The Sphinx's riddle echoed in my mind: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? A man's journey through life, some said. But standing there at sunset, I understood it differently. It wasn't about physical capability but about what we carry - the burdens, the lies, the truths we refuse to speak.

My phone buzzed. Sarah's name lit up the screen.

I remembered our last argument: "You're full of bull," she'd shouted, "always have been. You talk circles around everything because you're terrified to be real."

The desert wind kicked up, coating my lips with grit. I pressed my palm against the Sphinx's paw, ancient stone warm against skin. For the first time in months, I stopped running.

The answer to the riddle wasn't in the number of legs. It was simpler: someone who learns to stand.

I answered the phone. "Sarah."

"I'm at your place," she said. "We need to talk."

"I'm coming home."