The Riddle of the Empty Screen

Marissa stared at herself in the bathroom mirror at 2 AM. A strand of hair fell onto the porcelain sink—another casualty of the merger negotiations that had consumed her life for three months. At 34, she shouldn't have this much gray.

She swallowed her daily vitamin D supplement with lukewarm tap water. The doctor called it "the sunshine vitamin." Marissa called it "the minimum viable attempt at self-care."

In the living room, David lay on the couch, limbs splayed, staring blankly at the cable news scrolling silently across the screen. He looked like something dead—no, not dead. Reanimated. A creature of habit and exhaustion, moving through the motions of his job as a data analyst, their relationship, his life.

"Zombie" had been a joke between them once, back when they'd binge-watch apocalypse shows and pretend they'd survive. Now it just described their Tuesday nights.

"You're up," David said, not turning his head.

"Just the sphinx again," she said.

He laughed—a dry, brittle sound. "Your recurring nightmare?"

"The same one. Every night. I'm standing before it, and it asks me the same riddle: 'What disappears the more you try to hold it?' And every night, I panic. I can't remember the answer."

David finally looked at her. "Time," he said.

"No, that's not it. I figured that one out months ago."

"Money?"

"Too literal."

He swung his legs off the couch and sat up. "Come here."

She walked over, and he pulled her down beside him. The television glowed with stories of disasters elsewhere, distant and contained.

"The sphinx only ate people who couldn't answer," he said. "But what if you're asking the wrong question?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if the riddle isn't about what you're losing? What if it's about what you're becoming?"

Marissa felt something crack open in her chest. "I don't understand."

"Me neither." He took her hand. His fingers were warm, alive. "But we'll figure it out. Together. Before the sphinx eats us both."

They sat there as the cable news cycled through the same stories again, and for the first time in months, Marissa didn't feel like disappearing.