The Riddle on the Desk

Margot stared at the brass sphinx paperweight on her boss's desk, its enigmatic smile mocking her in the fluorescent office light. Three years of 60-hour weeks, and she was still just the associate who made the coffee run.

"Your cat photos again?" Jason said from the neighboring cubicle, leaning back in his chair. He'd been hired six months ago at a higher salary, fresh from an MBA program that taught him how to network but not how to work. His golden retriever calendar featured a different heartwarming pose for each month.

"My sister's cat. She's in hospice." The lie tasted like copper on her tongue. Her sister was fine. The cat was fine. Everything was fine, except for the way her life had narrowed to this beige corridor and the way Tom, their department head, looked through her during meetings.

"That's rough," Jason said, already turning back to his monitor. "Hey, did you hear about the London office opening?"

Every bone in Margot's body went still. The sphinx on Tom's desk seemed to sharpen its gaze. She'd heard rumors for months. Strategic restructuring. New opportunities.

"Tom's daughter's getting it," Jason continued, voice low with conspiracy. "She just graduated. No experience, but you know how it goes."

The sphinx's smile widened in Margot's peripheral vision. A riddle without an answer. A game where the rules were written in invisible ink.

Her phone buzzed. A real photo this time—her actual sister's actual cat, missing since Tuesday. "Still haven't found her," the text read. "The neighborhood shelter's full."

Margot stood up. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor. Jason glanced up, surprised.

"Where are you going? Tom needs those Q3 numbers by five."

"I have a riddle to solve," she said, and walked out past the sphinx, past Jason's golden retriever calendar, past Tom's closed door, into a city where at least the missing things were still worth finding.