The Riddle at the Top

The pyramid-shaped glass tower rose forty-three stories above Chicago, and Maya had climbed every one of them. Her corner office on the fortieth floor commanded a view of Lake Michigan, but mostly she watched the reflection of her own exhaustion in the darkened window.

Her iPhone vibrated against the mahogany desk—David again. Three missed calls, twelve texts. She silenced it without looking, though the screen's glow lingered like a fading ghost. The sphinx of modern romance: answer the riddle or be devoured, but Maya had stopped trying to solve it months ago.

"You're still here?" Evan appeared in her doorway, loosening his tie. The new VP, thirty-two and ruthless, with eyes that tracked every weakness like a predator. "Board meeting's at eight AM. Don't be the one falling asleep."

She nodded, refusing to show how his words sank in. The corporate pyramid demanded fresh sacrifices daily.

Outside, below the streetlights, a fox slipped between parked cars—a brush of russet against concrete, wild and unaccounted for. Maya watched it pause, nose lifted to catch some scent she couldn't name. Then it vanished into an alley, and she felt an absurd kinship. Both of them running through landscapes that had never been designed for them.

"Your husband's called three times," Evan added, leaning against her doorframe. "Everything okay?"

"Fine."

"You know," he said, voice dropping to something almost confidential, "I saw the sphinx in Egypt last year. Stared at it for hours, waiting for it to make sense. It never did. That's the point."

Maya finally turned from the window. "What's your point, Evan?"

"Sometimes you just stop asking." He checked his watch. "Go home, Maya. The pyramid will still be here tomorrow."

She gathered her things, phone lighting up with another message she ignored. Outside, the air was cold and the fox was gone. But as she walked toward the train, something in her chest loosened—just enough to remember what running towards something felt like instead of always running away.