The Sphinx at Center Court

The lightning strike didn't kill him—it just took his serve. That's what Marcus told everyone anyway, nursing his shoulder on the bench beside Court 4, watching Elena dominate yet another padel match. They hadn't spoken since the funeral three years ago, when the whiskey and grief collided into something ugly and unforgivable.

"You still play like you're running from something," Elena said, joining him, sweat darkening her temple. Her cat—a sleek black thing she'd named Riddle after her favorite mythology tattoo—curled around her ankles.

"And you still answer questions nobody asked." Marcus gestured at the sphinx tattoo on her forearm. "Speaking of riddles."

She laughed, but it was thin, worn down. The evening sky purpled behind the court lights, ominous. "My therapist says closure is a myth. That we're all just walking sphinxes guarding our own bullshit."

"Smart therapist. What's my riddle?"

"What walks away but never leaves?" Elena met his eyes. "What's still sitting at your kitchen table?"

Marcus looked away. A single raindrop hit his knee. Then another. The sky tore open.

They ran for the clubhouse, Riddle bolting ahead. Lightning cracked the sky white-blue, illuminating everything: Elena's laugh, the years between them, all the things they'd carefully not said since her husband—his best friend—died in that accident. Another kind of strike.

"I'm selling the house," he said over the thunder. "Too many rooms. Too much quiet."

Elena stopped breathing. Then: "Good."

"Good?"

"You needed a lightning strike," she said softly. "We both did."

The cat twined between their legs, purring like a small, relentless engine. And for the first time in three years, Marcus didn't step away.