The Riddle at 2 AM

The bar's neon sign cast a sickly green glow across Elena's iPhone, illuminating three unread texts from him. She'd stopped feeling that particular pinch in her chest weeks ago—the moment she recognized the zombie their marriage had become, two bodies moving through shared spaces without ever truly touching.

"You're going to drink yourself into a stupor again," came the voice from the next barstool. The man—forty-something, suit unbuttoned at the collar—slid a coaster toward her. "I've been watching. You're counting drinks like they're the last things you can control."

He reminded her of a sphinx, all sharp angles and knowing eyes, asking questions without speaking them.

"My husband just sent me photos of his new apartment," she said, surprising herself. "That's the bull, isn't it? The thing that tramples everything and expects you to admire its strength."

The man nodded slowly. "We all worship something that destroys us. Mine was ambition. Ended up a vice president at a bank that doesn't exist anymore. Now I sit here feeding rumors to tourists about local ghosts."

A goldfish swam lazily in the tank behind the bar, orange fins flickering in the filtered light. Elena watched it forget it had just visited that same castle decoration three seconds ago.

"Memory is overrated," he said, following her gaze. "Maybe we're all just fish pretending we don't live in a bowl."

She picked up her phone, opened the messages, and deleted them unread.

"What's the answer then?" she asked. "To the riddle."

"There isn't one," he said, signaling the bartender for another round. "The sphinx doesn't ask questions because she wants answers. She asks because she wants to know who's still willing to try."

Elena looked at her phone screen, black and silent in her hand. For the first time in months, she didn't feel like reaching for someone who wasn't there.