The Riddle of Us

The blue light from her iPhone illuminated Mara's face in the darkness, casting ghost-like shadows across the hotel room. 3:47 AM. Another notification from him she shouldn't read but couldn't resist.

She padded to the balcony in bare feet, clutching the silk robe around her. Below, the pool's black surface reflected Cairo's skyline—minarets and modern towers dancing together in the water. The sphinx of Giza had haunted her dreams since arriving, its ancient, unmoving face judging her for choices made and unmade.

"What are you hiding from?" David had asked yesterday at the conference reception, his hand lingering too long on her lower back. His British accent made everything sound like a riddle she should solve.

She had come to Egypt to escape—mostly from herself, from the marriage that had become two people living parallel lives in the same house. But escape had a way of finding you.

The pool's surface rippled in the wind. She imagined slipping into its cool embrace, letting the water wash away the past three years. The iPhone buzzed again. David. Or maybe Mark, back home, probably sleeping beside someone else by now.

At the pyramids that morning, the guide had said the sphinx asked travelers a riddle. Answer correctly, pass safely. Fail, be devoured.

Mara's riddle was simpler: When does staying become harder than leaving?

She typed something—what she meant to say all those years—then deleted it. Some sphinxes don't speak their riddles aloud.

The first hint of dawn pinked the horizon. She watched the water smooth itself into stillness, already forgetting the wind's disturbance. Tomorrow she would fly home. Tonight, she would finally sleep.

The phone darkened in her hand. Behind her reflection in the glass, Cairo began to wake.