The Riddle We Never Answered

The old baseball field was abandoned when I found him there, sitting on the pitcher's mound like he belonged to another lifetime. Rain sheeted down in the darkness, each drop a cold needle against my skin. I hadn't seen Marcus in seven years—not since the night I walked out of our marriage with nothing but a suitcase and a shattered heart.

"You're going to catch pneumonia," he said, not turning around. Like a goddamn sphinx, perched on his little hill, guarding secrets he'd never speak.

"And you're going to catch a baseball in the teeth," I shot back, though the pitching rubber was long gone, probably stolen years ago along with the bases and any hope we'd once had.

A fork of lightning split the sky, illuminating his face—older now, lines etched around eyes that still held that maddening calm. Like he knew something I didn't. Like he always had.

"I came to say goodbye, Marcus. My mother's funeral is tomorrow. I'm leaving town for good this time."

He finally looked at me. "That's not why you're here."

Thunder rattled my ribs. "Then why?"

"You're still asking the same riddle." He stood up, water plastering his shirt to his chest. "What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening. Remember?"

"Man," I said. "We were both classics majors. I know the answer."

"Wrong." He stepped closer. "The answer is memory. It crawls when it's fresh, stands tall in the middle of your life, then needs a cane to support all the weight it's gathered by the end."

I stared at him, rain running into my eyes, salt mixing with storm water. That was the thing about Marcus—he always twisted everything until I couldn't tell if he was a philosopher or just pretenious as hell.

"I felt like a zombie without you," he said softly. "Seven years of going through the motions. But you know what finally woke me up?"

I shook my head, unable to speak.

"Realizing the sphinx wasn't guarding anything. The riddle itself was the point. There is no answer. There's just asking."

Another flash of lightning, and in that split second, I understood what I'd been running from all these years. Not him. Not the pain of our marriage crumbling under the weight of expectations and disappointments. But the fear that some questions don't have answers, and that's okay.

I reached out and touched his wet face. "I'm leaving tomorrow," I whispered. "But I'll come back."

He smiled, and for the first time in seven years, the sphinx's riddle didn't matter anymore. Some answers aren't found—they're made.