The Sphinx at Gate B4

The notification pinged on his iPhone like some digital conscience, demanding attention he didn't want to give. Divorce papers signed and filed — the finality of it sat heavy in his pocket, heavier than the device itself. Marcus adjusted his baseball cap, pulling the brim low. The worn navy hat had been his father's, something he'd inherited along with the expectation that he'd follow the same path: wife, house, corporate ladder, predictable unhappiness.

She'd left him three weeks ago. Not for another man, but for herself. Said she needed to find out who she was when she wasn't playing supporting role in his carefully scripted life. He couldn't blame her, really. He'd been going through the motions for years, his own desires compressed into something manageable, respectable, dead.

Gate B4. His flight didn't board for another hour. Marcus bought an orange from a kiosk, something to occupy his hands. The cashier gave him a pitying look — he'd been getting a lot of those lately, as if middle-aged men buying single pieces of fruit were inherently tragic. He peeled it slowly, the citrus scent sharp and honest, cutting through the recycled air and artificial light of the terminal.

That's when he saw her: an elderly woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, an ancient Sphinx of a human being. She wore a kaftan printed with eyes, dozens of them watching him. Her skin was deeply lined, her expression unreadable. She was arranging baseball cards on the carpet in a careful spiral.

"Mickey Mantle," she said, not looking up. "1952. Worth more than my first house."

Marcus paused, orange section halfway to his mouth. "I beg your pardon?"

She tilted her head, studying him with eyes that seemed to see everything he'd been trying to hide. "You're wearing your father's hat," she said. "But you're not your father. The hat knows. It's been trying to tell you for years."

His phone pinged again. Work email. Some crisis that needed managing. He didn't check it.

"Who are you?"

"I'm whoever you need me to be," she said, arranging another card. "Most people need a mirror. Some need a warning. You? You need a riddle."

She patted the empty space beside her. Marcus sat. The orange was forgotten in his hand.

"What's the riddle?"

"What breaks when you name it? What dies when you feed it? What runs when you stand still?"

Marcus thought about his life — the promotions that felt like defeats, the marriage that shriveled with every compromise, the constant motion toward goals he'd never chosen.

"Expectations," he said. "Fear. Time."

The Sphinx smiled, and it transformed her face. "Not bad. But here's the real question: if you could start over, right now, what's the first thing you'd do differently?"

His iPhone lit up with his ex-wife's name. She'd probably forgotten something. Or wanted to tell him she'd made a mistake. Or didn't.

Marcus looked at the screen, then at the strange woman with her baseball cards and all-seeing kaftan. He pressed decline.

"I'd buy two oranges," he said. "And ask someone to share them."

The Sphinx nodded approval. "Start there."

He did.