The Riddle Before Dawn

Marcus had been moving through his days like a zombie for three months since Elena left. The numbness was comforting in its way—a soft anesthesia against the sharp edges of memory. He went to work, replied to emails, nodded during meetings, all while feeling like an observer in his own body.

The oranges were what undid him.

He'd stopped at that corner bodega on impulse, the scent of citrus hitting him like a physical blow. Elena had always peeled them for him, her fingers stained with juice, sliding each segment into his mouth during Sunday mornings in bed. The ritual had been stupidly intimate, the kind of small thing you didn't realize would break you until it was gone.

Now Marcus stood in his kitchen at 2 AM, his apartment silent except for the hum of the refrigerator, staring at an orange on the counter like it held the meaning of life. He cracked the peel. The spray of essential oils caught in the harsh fluorescent light. For a moment, he could almost smell her perfume—vanilla and something metallic, like rain on a subway platform.

"You look like someone waiting for an answer," his sister had told him earlier that day over coffee. "But you're not asking the right questions."

She'd given him a Sphinx statue she'd picked up in Egypt—a small limestone thing with chipped wings and weathered features. "Put it on your desk," she'd said. "Reminder that sometimes you have to face yourself to move forward."

The Sphinx sat on his nightstand now, its blank gaze meeting his. The ancient monster had asked its riddle of all who passed, devouring those who couldn't answer. What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? The answer was man—crawling as infant, walking as adult, leaning on cane in age.

Marcus's riddle was different, though maybe not so different at all.

What happens when you're twenty-eight and already feel like you've lived your three-legged day? When you've forgotten how to want things because wanting led to losing? When you realize the zombie state wasn't protection but punishment—a curse you cast on yourself?

He ate the orange in the dark, juice running down his chin, sticky and sweet and terrible. Outside, the city was waking up. Somewhere, Elena was probably sleeping in someone else's Sunday morning.

Marcus washed his hands and watched the water circle the drain. The Sphinx watched too, its expression unchanged. Outside his window, the sky was turning the color of wounded peaches.

He picked up his phone. Not to call her—some riddles didn't have answers, only better questions. He texted his sister instead: I think I'm ready to ask.

The orange peel on his counter had begun to brown at the edges, but the room smelled bright with life. The numbness cracked, just a little. Morning was coming.