The Riddle of Empty Glasses

Mark watched the water bead on the outside of his glass, counting each droplet's lazy descent. Six months after his father's death, he moved through life like a zombie—present in body, absent in spirit. His colleagues at the firm noticed. His secretary noticed. Even the barista who knew his order noticed.

Across the candlelit table, Sarah sat as inscrutable as a sphinx. She'd chosen this restaurant for their anniversary, booked months ago when grief was still fresh and raw. Now her carefully composed expression revealed nothing. Was she patiently waiting for him to return to himself? Or was she simply gathering the courage to say what she'd been holding back?

Outside, lightning fractured the night sky, casting brief, brilliant illumination across the dining room. In that flash, Mark saw the exhaustion etched around Sarah's eyes—the kind that comes from shouldering another person's darkness for too long.

"You're not here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Not an accusation, but a statement of fact. Like the sphinx posing her riddle, demanding truth.

Mark opened his mouth, closed it. What could he say? That he'd died with his father? That every morning he woke surprised to still be breathing? That he loved her but couldn't feel anything anymore?

Another fork of lightning split the darkness. This time, Sarah's face crumbled.

"I can't do it anymore," she whispered. "I can't love you back to life."

The words hit him like cold water. For the first time in months, something pierced through his numbness—sharp, immediate, devastating. The zombie blinked.

He reached across the table, found her hand. "Don't go."

Sarah's expression softened, fractionally. "Then come back."

The rain began to fall, hammering against the restaurant windows. Water, finally, after months of drought.