The Sphinx of Palm Sunday

Elena sat on the balcony of their hotel in Luxor, the silhouette of the Great Sphinx visible in the distance. In her lap, Buster—their aging golden retriever—rested his head on her knee, his breathing labored in the desert heat. Marcus was inside, packing, his silence louder than any argument they'd ever had.

"He asked for your palm," Marcus had told her that morning, his voice cracking. "The fortune teller in the market. He said he needed to read your palm."

She'd refused, of course. Fortune tellers were for tourists, not for archaeologists who'd spent fifteen years uncovering the past.

Now Buster whimpered, and Elena smoothed the fur around his ears. The dog had been her constant companion through three dig sites, two miscarriages, and the slow erosion of her marriage. She pressed her palm against his warm flank, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

"The riddle," Marcus had said yesterday, standing before the Sphinx's weathered face. "What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening."

"Man," she'd answered automatically.

"No," he'd said, turning away. "Love."

Marcus stepped onto the balcony now, suitcase in hand. Buster lifted his head, thumped his tail weakly against the tiles.

"I'm going back to London," Marcus said. "Without you."

Elena looked at the Sphinx across the Nile, its ancient mouth forever sealed with secrets. She thought of the fortune teller, of everything she'd refused to let herself see. She thought of the riddle.

"Four legs," she whispered, stroking Buster's side. "Two. Three."

She opened her palm, studying the lines etched there like the cracks in an excavation. The lifeline, love line, fate line—all just stories we told ourselves about random grooves in the earth.

"Go," she said.

As Marcus's taxi disappeared into the night, Elena pressed her palm against the warm stone of the balcony railing. The desert wind carried the scent of dust and ancient things, and beneath her hand, Buster's heart continued its steady rhythm against the coming dark.