The Riddle of the Water

The pool was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly how Elena liked it. She slipped into the water, the shock of cold against her skin a brief, sharp reminder she was still alive. Swimming had become her ritual since Marcus left—lap after lap, the chlorine stinging her eyes, the rhythmic slice of her arms through water the only thing that quieted the questions circling her mind like restless birds.

Barnaby, her elderly golden retriever, lay on the pool deck, his chin resting on his paws, watching her with that unconditional devotion that made her throat tight. He'd been Marcus's dog originally, a gift from better times, but now he was hers alone. The irony wasn't lost on her.

She turned at the wall, her feet finding the tile automatically. Fifty-six laps. Fifty-seven. The underwater lights cast wavy shadows across the bottom, and she found herself thinking of the sphinx statue they'd seen in Egypt on their honeymoon—how Marcus had stood before it, arms crossed, smiling mysteriously. "The riddle isn't the point," he'd said. "The point is that some things aren't meant to be solved."

She'd laughed then, assuming he was being romantic. Now she wondered if he'd been warning her.

Marcus had been her personal sphinx—beautiful, enigmatic, full of fragments and whispers and never a straight answer. Why did he disappear some nights? Why did he keep a locked drawer in his study? Why did he look at her sometimes with something like sorrow? She'd spent ten years trying to solve him, certain that if she loved him enough, the riddle would unfold into something coherent.

Instead, he'd packed his things three weeks ago and left only a note: "Some answers aren't worth finding."

Elena's fingers brushed the far wall again. Sixty laps. Her muscles burned, her breath came in ragged gasps, and still she couldn't outrun the memory of his face when he said goodbye—that strange calm, like he'd finally decided something she'd never even known was in question.

She emerged from the pool, water streaming from her hair, and Barnaby lifted his head, tail thumping twice against the concrete. She sat beside him, burying her face in his wet-smelling fur, and let herself cry for the first time since the note.

Some riddles, she realized, don't have answers. They just have survivors.