The Sphinx at Sunset

The message arrived at 4:47 PM, glowing orange against my phone's dark screen. *We need to talk. About what happened.*

Mira had been my friend for seven years, through two divorces and three promotions. We'd shared late-night Mexican food and morning-after regrets. But that morning's meeting had changed everything. She'd thrown me under the bus during the presentation, claiming the failing numbers were my responsibility, smiling that tight, practiced smile while I sat there exposed.

I couldn't bear to look at her message. Instead, I walked to the window. The sunset was bleeding orange across the skyline, violent and beautiful, like a wound that wouldn't heal.

"You're spiraling," I told myself. "Go home. Drink wine. Forget it."

But my feet carried me to the roof instead. The air was thick with summer heat. That's when I saw it — a sphinx moth, massive as a small bird, hovering near the HVAC units. Its wings moved too fast to see, suspended in that impossible stillness that defies physics.

I'd read about them once: creatures of the dusk, drawn to light but fearful of it. Carrying the weight of metamorphosis, bearing the memory of what they once were.

The moth landed on the railing, inches from my hand. In the orange glow of the dying sun, I saw the pattern on its back — eyes, endless eyes, watching and judging.

"What are you waiting for?" I whispered. "What riddle do you need me to solve?"

My phone buzzed again. *I'm sorry. I was scared. Please. Can we talk?*

The sphinx moth took flight, disappearing into the darkness like a secret carried away on the wind. I realized then that some riddles answer themselves if you're willing to wait out the sunset.

I typed back: *Tomorrow. 8 AM. The coffee shop on 4th.*

The orange light faded, but for the first time all day, I could breathe.