The Riddle of the Sphinx

Margaret stood before the bathroom mirror, swallowing her daily vitamin with the same ritual precision she'd performed for thirty years of corporate climbing. The orange pill looked like a tiny sunset against her palm—a reminder that even her health regimen had become another deadline to meet.

At fifty-two, she'd been replaced by a twenty-something who called everyone 'chief' and wore a fedora to important meetings. A hat. In a boardroom. The audacity should have been charming, but instead it felt like watching someone dance on your own grave while you were still occupying it.

Her cat, Balthazar, wound around her ankles with the indifference of a creature who'd seen her weep through divorces and promotions alike. He was the only relationship that had survived her ambition, and their bond consisted mostly of him judging her from various surfaces while she questioned every choice that led to this moment.

'You're being replaced by a sphinx,' her assistant had whispered yesterday, eyes wide with the delicious horror of workplace tragedy. 'No one knows what he's thinking. He just sits there, enigmatic, while everyone projects their own hopes onto him.'

The young man—the sphinx—had smiled at her during the handover meeting. Not malicious. Just... blank. A cipher who'd somehow convinced everyone that his lack of experience was actually a feature, not a bug. His eyes held no riddles, only the terrifying clarity of someone who'd never questioned whether the game was worth playing.

Margaret pulled her hat from the closet—the structured black one she'd worn to every major presentation for two decades. Something about the weight of it on her head made her feel armored, capable, ridiculous all at once.

'Balthazar,' she said, and the cat blinked slowly, 'I think I'm finally ready to stop solving riddles I didn't write.'

The vitamin bottle sat on the counter. She left it there. Some puzzles, she decided, were better abandoned than solved.