The Riddle We Never Solved

She found the cat hiding in the closet when she came for her things—boxes lining the hallway like evidence. Three weeks since she'd walked out, and he'd been living on cable news and delivery food, the apartment slowly forgetting itself.

"Found your baseball card collection," he said, gesturing to a box by the door. "And the sphinx statue from Egypt."

She paused in the doorway, afternoon light catching the gray at her temples. "The souvenir. Right."

"Memory's getting fuzzy." He rubbed his stubbled chin. "Keep thinking about Luxor. The guide with the riddle—four legs, two legs, three legs."

"We were hungover."

"We were happy."

The cat crept out and wound through her legs, purring. She bent to stroke its fur, and something tightened in his chest at the intimacy of it.

"He misses you," he said. "You bought that cheap dry food."

"You kept buying it after I left," she said. "I saw the receipt."

They stood in the silence of everything unsaid, twelve years compressed into the space between them.

"I can transfer the cable account," he offered. "Whatever you want."

She looked at him—really looked—and he saw what she must have: a man unspooling at the edges.

"Keep it," she said softly. "You need the noise."

The cat jumped onto the windowsill, golden eyes holding ancient judgment.

"It's the riddle," he said. "How you become strangers to someone who knows how you take your coffee."

She picked up the sphinx statue, weighed it in her hand. "Some riddles aren't meant to be solved."

She left with the cat meowing at the door—a question with no answer. He watched her go, the cable box blinking its silent countdown, baseball cards scattered like a hand he'd folded too late.