The Riddle in the Glass

Mara stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of her thirty-fourth story apartment, watching rain streak down the glass like veins. Three months since Thomas left, and the silence had settled into her bones like water rising slowly, imperceptibly, until she found herself submerged.

Down on the street, she saw it again — the red fox that had been appearing in the neighborhood at dusk. It moved with purpose through the alleyway, its coat bright against the wet pavement, carrying something in its mouth. A rat? No, something larger, more improbable.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her ex-husband: "Saw the sphinx moth you mentioned. They're back."

She deleted it.

The sphinx moths had been their thing — Thomas and Mara. They'd spotted one on their first date, hovering over the porch light like a small gray miracle, its long tongue uncurling into the hydrangea. Every year since, they'd watched for their return. Now they were back, and Thomas was texting her about it, as if information could bridge the chasm between them.

The fox below paused, looked up toward her window. Mara held her breath. In its mouth was a child's stuffed rabbit, bedraggled and gray. The animal trotted to a basement apartment's window well, dropped the toy, and lingered a moment before vanishing into darkness.

Water had leaked into her life at every seam — the dripping faucet Thomas never fixed, the way their arguments had dissolved into passive-aggressive silences, the tears she'd cried into her wine that last night. Now it was just her, floating in this aquarium of a life, waiting for something to break the surface.

She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and removed the photo of them in Greece, standing before a weathered sphinx they'd stumbled upon while lost on a back road. Thomas had said: "Everything gets eaten by time. Even riddles."

At the time, she'd laughed. Now she wondered if he'd been warning her.

The fox returned, this time without the toy. It sat in the alley, tail wrapped around itself, looking toward the basement window where a light had clicked on. A child's face appeared, small hands reaching for the rabbit through the glass.

Mara pressed her palm to the window. Some things got stolen. Some things got returned. Most things just got eaten by time.

Her phone buzzed again. She didn't look. Down below, the fox dipped its head once, almost like acknowledgment, then slipped away into the night.