The Sphinx of Sunday Morning

Sarah stood at the padel court, her racquet hanging loose in gripless fingers. Sunday 7 AM and she was already exhausted—a corporate zombie running on three hours of sleep and conditional approval from people who'd forget her name the moment she cleared her desk. Her golden retriever, Barnaby, lay on the sidelines, head on paws, watching with what she imagined was judgment. At least someone in this relationship had boundaries.

"You play like you're apologizing for something," said the stranger on the other side of the net. He'd appeared twenty minutes ago, middle-aged, impossible to place, moving with unnerving stillness.

Sarah blinked sweat from her eyes. "I'm tired."

"No." His gaze locked onto hers, sphinx-like and unreadable. "You're waiting for permission to exist."

Something in her chest cracked.

Barnaby lifted his head, whining softly, sensing the shift.

"Who are you?" she asked, voice smaller than she intended.

"Someone who was you, ten years ago." He returned the ball to her side of the court with surgical precision. "Here's the riddle: What costs everything you have, but you keep paying anyway?"

The ball rolled to a stop at her feet.

"Success," she whispered. "Martha. The corner office. The life I'm supposed to want."

"Wrong answer." He picked up his bag. "The cost is your own face in the mirror. The one you haven't really looked at in years."

Sarah drove home in autopilot, Barnaby pressed against her side. She parked in the garage and sat in the dark, engine off, hands trembling on the steering wheel. The zombie-like fog of the past three years had lifted, leaving her raw and terrified and awake.

Her phone buzzed—Martha, already. "Monday brief at 8. Don't be late."

Sarah turned it off.

Barnaby woofed softly, tail thumping against the seat. Outside, the sun was coming up.

She started the car, pointed away from the house, and drove toward the ocean.