The Riddle of Disconnection

Maya sat cross-legged on the apartment floor, surrounded by the detritus of a half-packed life. The coaxial cable lay tangled like a dead snake, disconnected from both the wall and the television that had served as their nightly ritual—the background noise to a marriage that had quietly starved itself.

Her friend Elena had told her to leave months ago. "You're living with a stranger who remembers your coffee order but not your dreams," Elena had said over drinks, nursing her own bitterness about a divorce still fresh after two years. Maya had nodded and made noncommittal sounds, the way you do when someone sees something you're pretending isn't there.

Barnaby—Daniel's cat, though Daniel had been gone three months now—jumped onto Maya's lap with an imperious meow. The sphinx-like creature regarded her with amber eyes that seemed to hold all the judgment of the ancient riddles: what walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening? The answer was supposed to be man, but Maya knew better now. The answer was grief, and it crawled on however many legs it needed to.

She'd always hated that damn cat. Daniel had found him as a stray, brought him home like some conquering hero presenting tribute. Barnaby had hissed at Maya for three weeks straight, then decided she was acceptable when Daniel started working late. Now the cat slept on her pillow every night, a warm, demanding weight that made it impossible to leave the bed without consequence.

The cable guy was coming between three and five. She'd have to explain why she was canceling internet along with everything else. No more Netflix. No more social media. No more checking Daniel's location status, though she'd stopped doing that weeks ago when she realized he'd turned off his tracking.

She'd decided to move to a cabin in Montana. Elena thought she was having a breakdown. Maybe she was. Maybe the breakdown had happened years ago and she was only now waking up to the debris.

Barnaby pawed at her hand. She scratched behind his ears, and he began to purr, a rumble that vibrated through her chest like something alive inside her.

"We're starting over," she told him. "No cable. No wifi. Just us."

The cat blinked, unimpressed.

Outside, rain streaked the window like the world was crying for her. Maya stood up, Barnaby sliding to the floor with a discontented chirp, and began to tape up the first box. The past would have to fit somewhere. The future would have to wait. For now, there was just the sound of tape tearing, the rain against glass, and the quiet understanding that some riddles don't have answers—they only have the asking.