The Riddle of Empty Things

Maya found Elias in his office at 11 PM, surrounded by empty takeout containers and the blue glow of his monitors. He looked like a corpse, really—pale skin, sunken eyes, the peculiar stillness of someone who'd been sitting too long.

"You look like a zombie," she said, dropping into the chair opposite him.

He didn't laugh. "I feel like one. The Sphinx merger documents. Three hundred pages, and I still don't understand what we're actually selling."

"Your soul?"

"Probably." Elias rubbed his face. "Remember when we started? When we were going to change something?"

Maya did remember. Ten years ago, fresh out of business school, both of them certain that strategic consulting was how they'd save the world. Now she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt something that wasn't exhaustion or mild anxiety.

"I put down my cat yesterday," Elias said suddenly.

"Oh god. El, I'm—"

"He was twenty years old. I had him since college." His voice cracked. "Bastian. He'd been there through everything—my divorce, the promotion, that year I couldn't sleep. And yesterday the vet said it was time, and I held him while they—" He stopped.

Maya reached across the desk and covered his hand with hers. "I'm so sorry."

"What I'm saying is, he lived a whole life. A whole cat life, whatever that means. And what have I done? Three hundred pages of merger documents I can't even explain to myself."

"We're not dead yet, El."

"Aren't we?" He pulled his hand away gently. "The sphinx asks riddles, but at least there are answers. This—" he gestured at the stacks of paper "—this is just endless questions without any riddles at all."

"Let me drive you home."

"I have to finish—"

"It can wait. Friend, you're trembling."

Outside, the city had that peculiar quality of late-night office districts: mostly empty, save for the occasional cab, lit windows here and there like stars in an inverted galaxy. They walked to the parking garage without speaking.

"You can come over," Maya said. "I have wine. And that awful cat you hate."

"I hate Mrs. Featherbottom," he agreed. "Yes. Please."

"We're not zombies," she said as she started the engine. "We're just tired. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"We'll figure it out tomorrow. Tonight we drink."

He nodded, closing his eyes. "Tomorrow."

But as they drove through the quiet streets, Maya thought: tomorrow was just another iteration of the same endless loop. The sphinx's riddle had an answer. This didn't, and maybe that was the point—the trick wasn't solving it, but learning to live inside the question.