The Sphinx of Server Room B

My summer job as a cable technician wasn't exactly how I pictured spending before senior year. But there I was, crawling through someone's attic, tangled in ethernet cords like a digital spiderweb.

Then I saw the dog.

A golden retriever mix, maybe, lying on a pile of insulation, watching me with those eyes that seemed to know way too much. Not aggressive, just... observing. Like she was waiting for something.

"Hey there," I whispered, reaching out. She didn't move. Just kept watching.

I worked faster, sweat dripping down my back, suddenly hyper-aware of how alone I was. How nobody knew where I was. How weird it felt to be almost-adult but still asking permission to use the bathroom at work.

The owner—this lady in her sixties with too much perfume—found me later. She saw me freeze when she mentioned the dog's name.

"That's Sphinx," she said, leaning in the doorway. "My granddaughter named her. Says she's got riddle eyes. You know, like the sphinx in mythology? Always watching, always waiting."

I blinked. "That's... actually kind of cool."

"Yeah?" She smiled, and I noticed the lines around her eyes, like she'd spent a lifetime smiling. "You should meet my granddaughter. She's got that same look. Like she's figuring everything out."

That's when it hit me—how we're all just sphinxes, really. Watching, waiting, riddling through the mess of growing up.

I thought about texting my friends. About how they'd laugh at me getting philosophical over a dog and an ethernet cable. But instead, I sat with Sphinx for a minute. Just two observers in a dusty attic, figuring out this whole being-alive thing together.

Sometimes that's enough. Just being seen. Even by a dog with riddle eyes.