The Riddle of Empty Seasons

The sphinx had been his daughter's gift—ceramic, chipped at one ear, painted gold flaking off its serene face. Marcus placed it on the edge of his desk at the university for thirty years, until the email arrived that morning: early retirement package, take it or leave it.

He had to bear the indignity of it. Fifty-six years old, and they made him feel ancient.

His iPhone buzzed in his pocket—Sasha, again. She'd been calling since Tuesday, since his wife Elena mentioned he'd been drinking more than usual. Marcus ignored it, just as he'd ignored the voicemails from his department head, the sympathetic looks from colleagues.

The baseball sat in the bottom drawer of his desk, autographed by a player whose name he couldn't remember. Elena had given it to him their first anniversary, after they'd watched a game from cheap seats, rain pouring down, both soaked through and laughing like they'd never stop. That was before her mother's dementia. Before the medical bills. Before Marcus started staying late at the office to avoid coming home to a stranger.

The sphinx's painted eyes seemed to mock him. What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? Man, crawling through infancy, standing tall in adulthood, hobbling toward death.

But the riddle was wrong. Some people never learned to stand. Some spent their whole lives crawling.

He unlocked his phone. Twenty-seven missed calls. The last voicemail was from last night: "Dad, please. Mom says you haven't eaten in two days."

Marcus picked up the sphinx, its weight heavier than he remembered, and dropped it into the trash can beside his desk. Something shattered—a coffee mug he'd forgotten was there.

Outside, the October sky burned pink as the sun went down. He stood at the window, watching students cross the quad, young and immortal and utterly unaware of how quickly it could all be taken away.

The phone buzzed again. This time, he answered.