The Riddle of Empty Tanks

The goldfish hadn't moved in three days.

David stood before the bowl on his ex-wife's bedside table, watching the orange speck float motionless in the greenish water. Elena had left it behind with everything else—the vitaminc supplements she swore made her "invisible to stress," the sphinx paperweight from their Cairo trip, even her half of the closet space now occupied by boxes he hadn't unpacked.

He dropped a vitamin D capsule into his own mouth—his new ritual, swallowing hope with breakfast.

Thursday meant padel with Marcus. "You need to get out," his friend had insisted, and David had agreed, though he mostly went because the glass courts reminded him of aquariums, and he needed to feel contained somewhere.

"You're playing like shit," Marcus called from across the net, wiping sweat from his forehead. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit." Marcus bounced the ball. "I saw your LinkedIn. You quit the firm?"

David didn't answer. Instead, he watched the ball bounce—once, twice, a rhythm that reminded him of summer evenings in his father's backyard, catching baseballs until his shoulder burned. His father had never understood why David traded law for corporate strategy, just as he'd never understood why David married a woman who kept secrets like collection items.

That night, David found himself at a pet store at midnight, standing before row after row of illuminated tanks.

"Can I help you?" The teenager behind the counter had acne and eyes that said he'd rather be anywhere else.

"My goldfish is dying."

"What kind?"

"I don't know. It was my wife's."

The kid nodded slowly, like this explained everything. "You need water conditioner. And maybe some flakes. What's the tank setup like?"

"A bowl. On a nightstand."

"That's your problem."

David drove home with chemicals and food, feeling strangely lighter. The goldfish was still floating when he returned, but as he dropped in the conditioner, it darted upward, breaking the surface like an answer to a question he hadn't known to ask.

The sphinx on the nightstand seemed to watch him, enigmatic smile unchanged. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands. Elena had loved riddles. Had loved that he couldn't solve her.

He called his father at 2 AM.

"David? You okay?"

"Remember when you taught me to catch?"

Silence. Then: "You cried when you missed. You were seven."

"I bought a baseball today."

"You haven't played in twenty years."

"I know."

They stayed on the line while his father told him about the garden, about how the tomatoes were coming in early this year, about nothing and everything. The goldfish swam in growing circles around its bowl.

The riddle wasn't the answer. It was the asking.