The Sphinx's Answer

The cat was the first thing Sarah noticed when she moved out—how quiet the apartment was without Bast's incessant meowing at 3 AM. Her ex had taken the cat, along with most of the furniture. Sarah stood in the empty living room, running her thumb over the rough patch of wall where their wedding photo had hung.

Outside her window, a cable swayed in the wind, frayed where it connected to the building. She'd been meaning to call maintenance for months. Another thing she'd let slide, along with her marriage, her career, whatever self she'd been before.

Her phone buzzed—a text from Mark. 'Come get the rest of your stuff or I'm donating it.'

She grabbed her keys. The elevator was broken again. Six flights down, her sneakers squeaked against the concrete. On the fourth floor landing, a massive dog—a Great Dane, ribs showing—stared at her with ancient, knowing eyes. No collar. Someone's abandoned certainty, now everyone's problem.

'Shit,' she whispered. The dog didn't move. Just watched her with those sphinx eyes, as if she should already know the answer to whatever riddle life was about to throw at her next.

She kept walking. Mark's door was unlocked. He sat on the floor with Bast curled in his lap, the both of them looking equally betrayed.

'The cat hates me,' Mark said. 'She keeps staring at the door like you're coming back.'

Sarah sank beside him. 'I'm not.'

'I know.' He handed her a box. 'Your grandmother's jewelry. Some books. That's it.'

The cat jumped from Mark's lap, wound around Sarah once, then returned to him. The riddle solved, then—the cat had chosen.

Back in her empty apartment, Sarah called the super about the cable. Then she googled the Great Dane. Found a post from three floors up: 'REWARD: Missing family dog. Answers to Atlas.'

She should call. She would. Tomorrow. Tonight, she poured wine and watched the frayed cable swing against the darkening sky, trying to remember when exactly her life had become something she was just running away from instead of toward.