Page 2

I sit cross-legged on the floor and pick up where I left off the night before. Oddly, I feel most at home here, alone, surrounded by the scent of mothballs and the delicate resistance of old parchment under my fingertips. The irony is I have no idea what I’m actually searching for; only that it must relate to mummification and the burial practices of temple priests. Worse, most of what I need to know about Luxor exists in the disorganized notes of long-dead men who once ransacked those sites. What I truly need is locked away in boxes and flash drives at NYU, out of reach. Returning to the dig site is impossible for now, so these faded notes and photographs will have to suffice.

I sift through every detail and note, pausing only for sips from my water canister. Each gulp recalls the raw, desiccated feeling of the Egyptian sun, an echo that drives me onward until exhaustion finally wins. Despite all the notes and glyphs, I have to admit: I won’t find what I’m seeking tonight.

As I pack up, carefully marking my place, flashes of the tomb’s interior return to me. It’s as if I punish myself with the memory of that mistake so I’m motivated to return. Worse, it’s a reminder I can’t stop because I need to know what happened, and why it still haunts me.

Tonight, after packing my things, I make one last stop before heading home. The guards don’t even glance at me—this is routine by now. Still, as I climb the stairs, Terry’s words echo in my mind, making me question why I keep doing this.

The doors creak open, revealing a darkened maze of bones and artifacts I could navigate blindfolded. The air lacks the coziness of the stacks below, but the museum’s ancient stone feels like home in its own way.

I finally navigate to the Egypt exhibit and find the sarcophagus I'm looking for right next to the information placard I helped write. It's a newer installation, but it's why no one has a problem with me hanging around like this. It's my work on display, my research that keeps people coming to this place, at least in part.

I study the sarcophagus—the rough stone exterior, the layered wood inside, the glyphs flickering in the dim exhibit light. As I trace my finger along the glass, memory stirs: the coarse stone, the smooth inner shell, the grain of the casket, the pulpy mask. This ritual is as much an apology as it is a reminder of how I found it and what happened that day.

I reread the placard describing the Wenuty, the “hour-priest,” a star watcher whose hidden chamber I helped uncover. I scan the glyphs along the sarcophagus and bindings, searching for anything missed, though I know I’ll find nothing new. The inscriptions simply recount a life of devotion and service to Seshat. I try to imagine such a life: loved, purposeful, so different from my own. What would it mean to live that way now?

Outside, a cloud drifts past the glass windows, veiling the night sky. When it clears, the stars are there, the same stars that haven’t looked right since the dig. At least the moon still looks right.

Somewhere beyond that pane of glass, my colleagues are sharing drinks. I offer a silent curse, one I hope Terry never hears, admitting he might be right. Maybe it’s time to stop chasing ghosts, to accept that what happened was just a tragic accident. Even if there’s an answer, I’m not going to find it here. I should let go of the past and spend my time on something real, not on phantoms from vanished civilizations.

I turn back to stare long and hard, not at the sarcophagus or the glyphs, but at the desiccated body on display. The body I disturbed with my thoughtless actions. The one that should still be resting in that ornate sarcophagus. My gaze drifts past it to a different placard that I didn't help write, then back to its subject.

"I’m sorry for disturbing your rest. I wish I could understand what happened to you."

The body, silent as ever, offers no answers, just empty sockets in a face drawn tight like old leather.

I bite my lip and turn to leave, then pause. It isn’t the body or the sarcophagus that catches my eye, but the canopic jars displayed beside them, or perhaps, the fact I’m certain one was glowing. Unlike any other burial I’ve studied, my mummy had not four jars, but five.

There were the usual four: Hapy the baboon for the lungs, Duamutef the jackal for the stomach, Qebehsenuef the falcon for the intestines, and Imsety the human for the liver. But the fifth jar, a strange, horned bat figure, sat among them, utterly alien to the Egyptian pantheon. Stranger still: no scan or X-ray revealed any contents. There were no organs, not even a cavity, just a void.

I glance at the window, unsure if I’m seeing a reflection or something more. For a heartbeat, as the clouds part, I swear that fifth jar glows, not just reflecting light, but pulsing with a warm, internal incandescence that vanishes the instant I notice it.

I rub my eyes, hoping to see it again, but nothing happens. Maybe it’s the mummy’s curse, or just Terry’s revenge: bad eyesight. My vision must be playing tricks on me after too many late nights.

I drain the last of my water, shoulder my bag, and head for the exit. As I walk, the realization settles in: I’m done chasing funerary rites and curses. It’s time to let the past rest and focus on what comes next.

I might not have a date waiting for me, but I have a cat, and that's just as good.

Chapter two

Bump In The Night

The stars still look wrong, but from the fire escape outside my apartment, it somehow matters less. Somewhere between leaving the museum and stepping through my front door, I decided I’ll just have to live with this feeling until it fades. Even if the stars seem off, at least they shine bright enough above New York, and nothing compares to the way they fill the night sky with their light.

The cold New York night nips at my nose, car horns blare in the distance, and the city’s scent drifts up to me, but there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here, gazing at the sky. There’s comfort in knowing something so vast and permanent exists beyond me, a beauty in observing and wondering from afar, just like what drew me to archaeology. But this ritual is new, something that only started after my return from the dig. I can see the parallels, but I can’t explain why my love for my work is now so tangled up in the stars.

A pawing at the window interrupts my thoughts, reminding me my time is up. No more wondering why the stars suddenly matter so much, or letting them fill me with awe and uncertainty. All I can do now is stick to the resolution I made earlier and hope this feeling fades.

The pawing grows louder, joined by a high-pitched whine, and I finally muster the energy to rise from the fire escape and turn toward the furry face at the window. For a fleeting moment, I glimpse my reflection in the glass: long black hair, almond-shaped brown eyes, a round face I know as my own. Yet for an instant, much like with the jars earlier, it feels as if someone else is looking out from behind my eyes.

I rub my eyes, and when all I see is a grumpy cat, I realize I’ve let my obsession go too far. Even if I’m not ready to let it go, I definitely need a break, or at least a distraction.

Mittens starts threatening to chew a spider plant by the windowsill, and I immediately knock on the window pane. "Hey! I'm gonna feed you, lay off!"

The gray tabby stares at me for a moment, then resumes pawing at the window, clearly frustrated I haven’t fed her yet. I roll my eyes, slide up the window, and slip inside. She darts straight to her food bowl in the kitchen.

"Oh, so you do remember where your food bowl is. Couldn't find it last night at three in the morning, but suddenly you're Purrlock Holmes."

She just stares up at me with those big yellow eyes, waiting for me to fill what I now notice is a still half-full bowl.