The Riddle of Grace

Margaret stood by the lake at dawn, her orange **vitamin** tablet dissolving slowly on her tongue as she had done every morning for forty years. The ritual had started when Arthur was alive—a daily promise to stay healthy for their grandchildren, for the years they dreamed of sharing.

Barnaby, their tattered old tabby **cat**, wound around her ankles, purging a symphony of squeaks that defied his twenty-one years. He settled on the bench beside her, watching the **water** with the same fierce concentration he'd once reserved for mice, back when mice were worth chasing.

"You remember, don't you?" she whispered to Barnaby, whose ears flickered in response. "When Sarah and Michael were little, learning to **swim** right here?"

The memory washed over her with the clarity of yesterday—Sarah's determined face, Michael's splashing laughter, Arthur's patient hands holding them buoyant. The lake had been their classroom, their playground, their church. Now the grandchildren were grown, with children of their own. Margaret was the matriarch now, the keeper of stories, the one they called with questions about family history, recipes, the proper way to live.

The ancient **sphinx** had asked its riddle: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in evening? Margaret had always thought the answer incomplete. Life wasn't that neat. You needed your four-legged companions, your two-legged children, and sometimes—on the hard days, the Arthur-missing days—you needed all three legs and someone to lean on.

Barnaby nudged her hand with his weathered face. She stroked his soft head, feeling the steady rhythm of his small heart against her palm. The sun rose over the water, painting the sky in shades of peach and lavender—the colors of grace, she'd always thought. Another day to love, to remember, to pass along what she'd learned: that the riddle wasn't about the walking, but about who walked beside you.