The Riddle of Empty Rooms

The pool at the Avalon Hotel reflected the dying light like a bruised mirror. Elena sat at the edge, legs submerged, watching the water ripple around her calves. At forty-two, she'd finally admitted that certain doors, once closed, don't reopen.

She touched the silver streak in her hair—Marco's doing, last December, when he'd painted it during that pretend-serious afternoon in their sunlit kitchen. He'd kissed her temple afterward and said, Now you look like someone who's seen some things.

Now the sunlit kitchen belonged to another woman. The sphinx had riddled them both, apparently, and Elena had failed to solve it. She still didn't know the right answer. Was it trust? Was it timing? Was it simply that some fires burn down to ash and that's not tragedy, just physics?

A cat slunk past the lounge chairs—black, mismatched eyes watching her. It reminded her of Marco's apartment, that stray they'd fed for weeks until he simply stopped coming around. Animals sensed abandonment before humans admitted it existed.

She pulled her hand from the water, droplets sliding down her palm like tears. Palm reading, that's what her mother would've called this moment. The future in the wet creases of her hand.

The cat meowed once, demanding. Elena smiled despite herself. Survival looked like: finding warmth where you could, demanding what you needed, moving on when the bowl stayed empty. She stood up, water dripping from her legs, and followed it toward the hotel lobby. Some riddles you solve by walking away.