The Riddle of Empty Streets

The alarm screamed at 6:00 AM, and I dragged myself upright, feeling like a zombie before my feet even touched the cold floor. Three years of corporate project management had hollowed me out, leaving a shell that executed tasks with mechanical precision while something vital quietly died inside.

Barnaby, my elderly golden retriever, thumped his tail against the bedroom door—a sound that used to make me smile. Now I just felt the weight of his arthritis, his cloudy eyes, the slow decay of the creature who'd waited through failed marriages and promotions I'd stopped celebrating.

We walked our usual route through the park, past the sphinx fountain that had haunted this neighborhood since the 1920s. Its stone eyes watched me, wings folded, water trickling from lips shaped in an eternal smirk. Last year, the city had proposed removing it. I'd fought to keep it, testifying about heritage and continuity. I wasn't sure why, except that the sphinx asked nothing and offered no answers—unlike everyone else in my life.

"Are you happy?" Sarah had asked three nights ago, her voice quiet in that way that meant something final was coming. The question hung in the air, impossible as any ancient riddle. I'd said nothing. She'd packed her things by morning.

Barnaby stopped and looked up at me, his muzzle whitened with age. He was the only one who'd never asked for anything except presence, food, the occasional scratch behind the ears. His devotion was simpler than human love, and therefore more trustworthy.

The sphinx's stone face caught the morning light, its expression unreadable. Standing there with my dying dog and my hollow life, I finally understood the riddle. The answer wasn't in fighting to keep what was already gone, nor in some dramatic transformation. It was simpler: stop waiting for permission to be alive.

I knelt in the dew-soaked grass, buried my face in Barnaby's neck, and for the first time in years, I cried.