The Riddle of Empty Rooms

You become a zombie by degrees. First you stop noticing the light in the morning. Then you stop feeling the water in the shower. By the time David kissed you goodbye and you didn't taste the coffee on his breath, you were already halfway gone.

Now you sit in your office cubicle, another corpse in the graveyard of fluorescent lights, while your iPhone glows with messages you can't bring yourself to answer. Your mother wants to know if you're coming for Christmas. Your friends want to know if you're still alive. The irony isn't lost on you.

The real question—the one that keeps you awake at 3 AM, staring at the ceiling fan's endless rotation—is whether David noticed first. He'd been asking for months what was wrong. You'd shrug, mumble something about work, about being tired. The truth was you didn't know. You still don't.

You've become a sphinx without a riddle, all stone silence and enigmatic sorrow, guarding a tomb of your own making.

Your iPhone buzzes. David's name appears.

"I think we need to talk."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You've been expecting this, dreading this, somehow convinced that if you just stayed frozen long enough, winter would never end. But spring always comes, doesn't it? The dead always rise.

You type and delete three different responses. Finally: "I know."

Something stirs in your chest. Not much. Just the ghost of something that might once have been called hope. Perhaps becoming undead means you can finally learn how to live. Perhaps this is what the riddle was always about.

You stand up, grab your coat, and walk toward the door. Outside, the afternoon light is blinding. For the first time in months, you blink.