The Riddle of Departure

The sphinx watched her with its enigmatic limestone smile, just as it had watched thousands of tourists before. Maya stood before the ancient statue in the British Museum, her iphone clutched so tightly in her palm that her knuckles turned white. Three unread messages from David blinked on the screen, but she couldn't bring herself to read them. Not yet. Not here.

Outside, a summer storm had broken over London. Lightning cracked the sky with such violence that the museum lights flickered, casting the sphinx's face in shifting shadows—now benevolent, now mocking. The irony wasn't lost on her. She'd spent five years of her life with a man who treated her heart like a riddle to be solved, never realizing that she was the one asking all the questions.

"You know what they say about the sphinx," an elderly man beside her murmured, gesturing with a cane. "It asks you a question, but it never provides the answer."

Maya turned. He wore an orange scarf that had faded to the color of a dying sunset, and his eyes held the weight of someone who had seen too much.

"Maybe that's the point," she found herself saying. "Maybe the answer changes depending on who's asking."

He smiled, and in that moment, her phone buzzed again. This time she looked. David's messages were all variations of the same theme: *We need to talk.* *I've been thinking.* *Can you call?*

The lightning flashed again, illuminating the sphinx's timeless face, and something inside Maya shifted. She wasn't a riddle anymore. She wasn't waiting for someone to solve her or save her or complete her.

She typed back three words: *I already know.*

Then she blocked his number, turned to the old man, and asked, "What else do you know about riddles?"