The Riddle in the Break Room

The spinach salad sat untouched on her desk, wilting under fluorescent lights that had been flickering for three weeks. Maintenance promised to fix them. They also promised to fix the air conditioning, which had been making a sound like a dying animal since July.

Maria's iPhone vibrated. Another Teams message from David: 'We need to discuss the Q3 projections.' Again.

She felt like a zombie, moving through meetings she couldn't remember, typing emails she didn't care about, nodding at jokes that weren't funny. Her mother had called yesterday, worried that Maria hadn't visited since Christmas. 'You're always so busy,' she'd said, the accusation gentle but unmistakable.

What was she running toward? Or from?

The office had installed one of those motivational posters in the break room last month—a sphinx against a sunset, beneath the word 'PUZZLE.' It was supposed to represent problem-solving, intellectual challenge. Instead, Maria found herself standing before it at 3 AM during a mandatory crunch period, staring into its painted eyes.

What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening?

Man. The answer was man.

But the sphinx's real question wasn't about legs. It was about time. About the way we start small and crawl, then stand tall and proud, then end up leaning on something—anything—to keep moving forward. About how the same creature could be all three things, and none of them, and something else entirely.

The spinach in her salad had gone slimy. She threw it away.

'You okay?' David asked, finding her by the poster. He looked tired too. There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there six months ago.

'My spinach went bad,' she said.

He nodded like this made sense. 'Mine too.'

They stood there together as the sun came up, two zombies at the end of the world, and for the first time in months, Maria didn't feel like running.