The next morning, Salma stood in the Luxor Museum, staring at a statue of a forgotten nobleman. She looked at the blue scarab in her hand and smiled
By Abdel Latif Moubarak | Egypt
Death was not the eternal slumber the priests of Amun had promised. It was a heavy, suffocating wait. Deep within the limestone heart of the Theban Necropolis on the West Bank of Luxor, a single grain of sand shifted. It was followed by the dry, rhythmic rasp of ancient linen rubbing against stone.
Amun-Mes opened his eyes. They were not physical eyes, but the “Ba” (the soul) reclaiming its vessel. He rose from his rose-granite sarcophagus, ignoring the heaps of gold and the blue-glazed Ushabti dolls meant to serve him in the afterlife. He didn’t want servants; he wanted Nefert.
He drifted through the narrow, painted corridors, passing the scenes of his own funeral, until he reached the surface. The sky was not the sky he remembered. The stars seemed further away, and the scent of the Nile was no longer pure—it was tainted by a strange, acrid smoke.
Standing on the edge of the West Bank, he looked toward the city of the living. Thebes—now Luxor—shimmered with lights so bright they put the stars to shame.
”Where are you, Nefert? Do you still wait by the obelisk, or has time stolen your shadow?”
He did not use a reed boat. Instead, his weightless form glided across the dark water, invisible to the tourists laughing on the feluccas. He reached the East Bank, the side of the rising sun, where the modern city pulsed with a frantic energy. He found a discarded black cloak on a wooden bench and wrapped it over his tattered bandages, appearing as nothing more than a tall, shadowed stranger in the night.
In the crowded streets near the Luxor Temple, amidst the roar of engines and the scent of fried spices, his heart—long silenced—seemed to throb.
There she was. Standing before a shop window filled with alabaster statues. She had the same graceful neck, the same almond-shaped eyes he used to outline with black kohl, and the tiny mole near the corner of her lips. She wore strange garments—stiff blue fabric on her legs and a white shirt—but her Ka, her essence, was unmistakable.
He rushed toward her, his voice coming out like the rustle of dry papyrus:
“Nefert… I have returned for you.”
The girl spun around in terror. Her name was Salma, an archaeology student who spent her days studying the very kings this man resembled. She looked at the stranger; he smelled of myrrh, saffron, and a thousand years of desert wind.
She didn’t scream. There was a profound, ancient grief in his eyes that no actor could mimic.
“Who are you? And how do you know that name?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Amun-Mes froze. The language was different, but the melody of her voice was the same.
“I am the one who gave you his heart at Karnak, and promised to find you even if Ammit herself tried to devour my soul. Do you not remember, my Queen?”
Salma’s academic mind raced. She looked at his hands—they were like carved cedarwood, dark and weathered.
“You… you aren’t from this time, are you?” she asked, a cold shiver running down her spine.
He led her toward the riverbank, away from the neon lights. There, under the silver moonlight, he lowered his hood. He wasn’t a monster; he was a kingly memory, a face etched by time but softened by love.
Salma began to weep—not out of fear, but out of the sheer weight of his devotion.
“My lord… the Nefert you seek died three thousand years ago. I am not her. I am only a distant echo of her beauty.”
He shook his head slowly.
“The soul does not die, little one. It only changes its garment. I have found you, and that is enough for me to return to the silence.”
He reached into the folds of his ancient linen and pulled out a small, exquisite scarab carved from rare blue lapis lazuli. He pressed it into her palm.
“Keep this, so you may know that I was not a dream.”
As the first golden threads of dawn touched the peaks of the West Bank, Amun-Mes began to fade like incense smoke. He did not return as a corpse, but as a lover whose heart was finally at peace.
The next morning, Salma stood in the Luxor Museum, staring at a statue of a forgotten nobleman. She looked at the blue scarab in her hand and smiled. She realized then that in this city, love is never truly buried; it only waits beneath the sand for the right heart to call it home.
Read: Marble Remains – A Short Story
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The author was born in Suez and writes poetry using classical Arabic and Egyptian vernacular. He received a Bachelor of Law from Ain Shams University. He was one of the most important poets of the 1980s and his poems were published in several literary magazines in Egypt and the Arab world, including the Arab magazine, Kuwait magazine, News Literature, Republic newspaper, Al-Ahram, the new publishing culture (magazine).[1] Received the Excellence and Creativity Shield from the Arab Media Union in 2014 and Won the shield of excellence and creativity from the East Academy 2021.He won the Sergio Camellini International Award in Italy in 2025. He won first place in the “Divinamente Donna” competition in Italy 2026.
