The Riddle of Morning

She'd been running for forty-five minutes when her phone buzzed against the treadmill console—a reminder to take her vitamin D supplement. The irony wasn't lost on her. She was running in circles inside a gym while sunlight poured through the skylights, her body manufacturing exactly what she was about to swallow in gelatin capsule form.

Later, at the museum where she worked as a junior curator, Elena found herself alone with the Egyptian sphinx in the west gallery. The limestone creature stared at nothing, its human face permanently serene, its lion body crouching in eternal readiness. She'd walked past this exhibit a thousand times, but today the sphinx seemed to be asking her something.

"What's the riddle?" she whispered. The gallery was empty, her voice swallowed by high ceilings and the smell of old paper and climate control.

Her phone showed three unread texts from Marcus: last night's dinner, their relationship, their future—all questions she couldn't answer. The sphinx offered no hints.

That evening, she went swimming at the community center, the only place her phone couldn't follow. She moved through the water, pulling herself forward one stroke at a time, while overhead fluorescent lights flickered like distant stars. Her body knew this rhythm better than it knew anything else.

In the locker room, she found a vitamin C packet in her jacket pocket—Marcus must have slipped it there during his health-food phase, the one where he was convinced antioxidants could fix anything. Even her doubt.

She tore it open and poured the powder into her mouth, the sour fizz blooming on her tongue. The sphinx hadn't given her answers, but she was beginning to understand that some riddles dissolve not through solving, but through swimming against the current until you're strong enough to simply let go.