Life in Neseret's house flowed more calmly than I had ever thought it would. It was no longer just a place where I had a roof over my head – it became a space where I could breathe. And she… she made it so that I felt I wasn't just a guest here.
She didn't need words to show me.
In the morning, she prepared a jug of water for me before going out to meet the rising sun. In the evening, when I returned, she was waiting with bread or figs, as if it were just a coincidence. And yet, it was never a coincidence.
When I sat in front of the house, she brought me a lamp and sat beside me, even though she didn't have to. When I spoke with people in the town, she always stood nearby, as if to show that I belonged in her circle. It wasn't an open declaration – Egyptian women of this time did not speak that way. It was care, silence, and presence.
People noticed. They whispered, but Neseret never hesitated. She acted as if she didn't hear, and when I asked why she did it, she only said: "If it is right, let them say what they want."
---
One evening, when I came back late, she was sitting in front of the house with a lamp. The wind played with her hair, her eyes were tired, but she had been waiting.
"You didn't have to," I told her as I approached.
"I had to," she replied. "A man who walks at night can meet misfortune. If they know I wait for you, they will not allow anything to happen."
I understood what she meant. She didn't speak of it, but her actions showed that she had accepted me as part of her life.
---
Over time, she taught me their ways. How to knead dough for bread that had a different shape than I knew. How to brew beer for feasts. How to carve amulets from clay that people wore as protection.
One day, she placed a small clay fish symbol in my palm. "For luck," she said. "This is what we do."
I held it in my hand and felt that it was more than a simple charm. It was a gift – her way of saying that I was accepted.
---
Words weren't needed. Sometimes her gaze lingered on me longer than necessary. Sometimes her fingers brushed against mine when she handed me a vessel. I saw it, but I let it pass. I no longer felt love, yet I understood what she was giving me.
---
One evening, as we sat in front of the house, she spoke:
"People say you know things that even our elders do not. That you have knowledge only priests possess. That you can ease pain when others can only wait for the gods."
I looked into the fire. "Not everything is a gift from the gods. Some things can be learned, if you watch and try. That is all."
"And where did you learn this?" she asked quietly. Her eyes fixed on me, and I knew she would not be satisfied with a simple answer.
I hesitated. She could never understand the truth. Finally, I said: "I have been to places where people kept knowledge. I learned there. That is all you need to know."
She nodded, but it was clear it wasn't enough. She fell silent, yet her gaze spoke more than words – the gaze of a woman who no longer saw only a guest in a man.
---
And then she asked the question I had avoided.
"Amenemhet," she said, "where you came from… was there someone you cared for?"
---
For a moment, I was silent. Words were hard to find. The memories were clear – Cleopatra's laughter, her voice, her gaze. I still had the memories, but not the feelings. The gods had torn them from my heart.
"Yes," I finally answered. "Once there was someone I cared for more than for my own life."
Neseret lowered her head, her eyes on the ground. "And… now?"
I looked at her. "Now it is only a memory. The feelings are gone. I remember what I felt, but I no longer feel anything."
For a moment, silence hung between us. The wind moved the flame of the lamp.
Neseret nodded and said nothing more. But her hand slowly moved closer to mine, as if she wished to say more than she dared with words.
Her hand touched mine. I didn't pull away, nor did I move closer. I simply kept my eyes on the fire before us and let the silence linger.
"Neseret," I said slowly, "I am not a man with a clean past. Sometimes it feels like I carry more than I should. Losses… things I couldn't change… people I left behind."
She looked at me, her eyes shining in the firelight. "But you're here. And you help. That means more than what came before."
I gave a short, bitter laugh. "Maybe. But you know… when a man values someone so much he would give his life for them, and then loses them… an emptiness remains. Even if the memories don't fade."
"That emptiness lives in everyone," she said quietly. "Some fill it with work. Others pretend it isn't there. Or… they let someone else help them carry the weight."
Her words caught me off guard. I turned my face toward her, but she was already looking back into the fire, as if she had said nothing at all.
For a moment I wondered whether to answer. Then I said: "Perhaps one day. Perhaps someone. But I… I've grown used to carrying things alone."
Her fingers pressed a little more firmly against mine, as if to show me that, at least now, it didn't have to be entirely alone.
And so we sat there. She in her silence, me in mine. The fire burned, and above us the stars slowly appeared in the night sky.
Her hand stayed on mine as the flames in front of us slowly burned down. It wasn't courage or accident – it was intention. I knew it because she didn't pull back, not even when she realized I had noticed the touch.
"Neseret," I finally spoke, "tell me… why did you remain alone? Why don't you have a husband?"
Her gaze fell to the ground, and she was silent for a long time. Then she lifted her eyes and quietly said: "I once had a betrothed. But sickness took him before we could be married. Then came the child… and people said I was cursed. That if I married again, I would bring misfortune on another."
She spoke without tears, without anger. As if she had accepted that this was simply how it must be. But in her voice, I heard the painful emptiness.
"And you believed them?" I asked.
"No," she answered firmly. "But a man who took me as his wife would bear that burden with me. So I remained alone. I live for my child. And now… maybe also for you, since you are under our roof."
Those last words were so soft the wind nearly swallowed them. But I heard them.
We sat for a while longer. Then I told her about the things I could reveal. About my years of service, about the healing I had learned through watching and experience. About the people I had lost, the temples I had helped repair. I didn't say everything—only enough for her to understand that I knew what it meant to carry the weight of fate.
Neseret listened without interruption. Her eyes were wide and silent, as though she didn't want to miss a single word. When I finished, she nodded. "That is why your eyes look older than your face. Because you've seen more than others."
I wanted to laugh, but I couldn't. She was right. And I realized another wall between us had fallen.
Later, when her child woke and began to cry, she rose and went to him. I stayed seated, listening to her footsteps in the dark. She returned after a while and sat next to me again. Without a word, she handed me a piece of bread, though she herself ate less. In that gesture was a care that spoke louder than a thousand words.
"Tomorrow will you go again to the people?" she asked as we lay down to rest.
"Perhaps. If someone asks for help," I replied.
She nodded. Then she lay closer to me than she needed to. Not completely near—there was still space between us. But I felt her warmth. And I knew it was not by chance.
We lay in the dark. Her breathing slowed, but she did not sleep. Neither did I.
"You know," she whispered after a while, "when I first saw you, I thought you were just another who would come and go. But now…" She paused. "Now I fear that when you leave, there will be an emptiness left behind. Greater than there was before."
Her words cut deep. I didn't answer right away. I knew if I spoke too soon, I would say more than I should.
"Everyone leaves," I said at last. "But what we leave behind doesn't vanish. And you have your child. That is more than everything else."
For a moment I thought she would pull away. But she didn't. Instead, she reached out and placed her hand on my chest, right where my heavy heart used to be.
"Then stay at least until morning," she said.
"I will stay," I answered.
And so we slept—not as lovers, not as strangers, but as two people who had found shelter in a world too harsh