I sat by the doorway of her house as the day slowly turned into evening. Neseret was humming softly, trying to put the child to sleep, while I held a piece of wood I had found earlier by the river. Hard, straight, and good for shaping.
I thought about everything she had done for me – she had taken me under her roof, given me a place to rest, and allowed me to be part of her life. I couldn't repay that with a simple "thank you." And I knew that when I left to serve in the palace, she would stay here alone. With her child, with her work, with the weight of daily struggles.
I pulled out the small knife I had kept and began carving the wood. For a long time, I considered what could truly help her. At last, I decided on something simple – a small hand-mill handle to make grinding grain easier. Their old stones were heavy and awkward. But if I combined this wood and stone into a simple lever, she could grind more flour with less effort.
I worked until the sky turned red. I smoothed the wood and fitted it with the stone. It wasn't perfect – nothing that would impress the people in the palace – but for a woman who had to feed herself and her child every day, it would mean more than enough.
When she came outside, the child was already asleep. She saw me working and stopped.
"What are you doing?" she asked quietly, so as not to wake the little one.
"Something for you," I answered, lifting the wooden handle. "So you don't have to use so much strength when you work. When I leave, I won't be able to help you anymore. But this will stay."
She looked at me for a long time without speaking. Then she sat down beside me and ran her hand across the wood.
"It's simple," she said softly. "But strong. Just the way it needs to be."
I smiled. "It's not a gift meant to impress. It's a gift meant to last."
She was quiet for a while, then placed her hand on my shoulder.
"You've done more than I expected. You didn't come here as a friend. But this is how you're leaving."
Her voice was gentle, but there was weight in it – she already knew the time of my leaving was close.
I looked at her, at the house, at the child sleeping inside. And I knew that this place, which had given me a moment of peace
Neseret sat beside me, her fingers still tracing the wood, as if it wasn't just a piece of stone and timber, but something more. I felt the silence shift in the air.
"Amenemhet," she began carefully, "I know you have no reason to stay here. I know that one day you will leave. But…" She stopped, drew in a deep breath, and continued. "But I feel that I don't want to lose you. You're no longer just someone I gave a place to. You've become more."
Her eyes locked on mine, unflinching. There was something in them I had seen before—the same look I once knew in someone else. The look of a woman who feels more than she says.
I drew a deep breath. "Neseret…" I said softly. "I know you feel something for me. I see it in your eyes, I feel it in your gestures. And I must tell you the truth—I cannot return it. Not because you don't deserve it. But because I cannot. I'm sorry."
For a moment, I saw her face lose its strength, as if someone had stolen the breath from her. But then she nodded, lowered her head, and whispered: "I understand."
I wanted to say more, but I knew it would only hurt her. So I stood and let her return to her child.
---
My inner monologue:
Later, I sat alone outside, staring at the sky where the first stars had begun to glow.
"Neseret…" I repeated her name to myself. She was a good woman. Strong. She could have meant a new beginning for me. But I knew the truth.
The gods had given me immortality. They had taken love from me. My heart had once been broken and then sealed away. And even if it opened again, what could I offer her? A life beside a man who would never age, while she inevitably would? A life beside someone who could never fully be hers?
No. I couldn't do that to her. I couldn't give her lies in place of truth.
So I repeated what I had long known: I have no place in her life. I am here only for a time, to do what I was destined to do. And then I will vanish. Just as I vanished once before.
The stars shone above me, but inside I was empty. Empty in the way I had been ever since the gods had taken my heart.
The morning was quiet. Sunlight filtered into the room through a narrow slit in the wall that served as a window. I sat by a low wooden and clay table while Neseret fed her child. We hadn't spoken a word. The air between us was heavy—not with blame, but with the knowledge of what had happened the night before. And of what would never happen again.
From time to time, she looked at me. Not accusingly, but with sadness. Eyes that had sparkled only days ago now seemed dimmer. Yet when the child finally fell asleep contentedly, her lips curved into a brief smile.
She laid the baby in a wicker basket lined with cloth beside the bed. Then she turned to me.
"Thank you," she said. "For everything you've done for me. Without you, I would have…" She stopped herself.
I looked at her, knowing I had to speak.
"Neseret, there is something you should know. What you did for me—taking me in, giving me a place, caring for me—I will never forget. And though I cannot be the man you might wish me to be, I want to promise you something else."
Her eyes lifted to mine, careful, waiting.
"When I serve the Pharaoh one day," I continued, "and you find yourself in need—of help, of protection, of anything—all you need to do is come. I will see to it. What you have done for me is written into my heart, and I will never allow you or your child to suffer, not while I still have the power to prevent it."
She was silent for a moment. Then her eyes glistened, and she whispered, "You speak as if you are already leaving."
I nodded. "Yes. Tomorrow morning."
A shadow crossed her face. "So soon?"
"I cannot prolong this," I said. "The tension between us would only grow. And I know I have already done here what I was meant to do. The people have accepted me, the temple knows me, and now my steps must lead me to the palace."
She leaned against the wall and was quiet for a while. At last she said softly, "I knew this day would come. But I hoped… not yet."
I wanted to give her words that would ease the pain, but none came. I had no right to give her hope. Finally, I added:
"I'll be here one more night. In the morning, I'll leave. But don't take it as an ending. It's only the beginning of a different path. And you will always be able to come to me."
She stepped closer, now just a pace away. "And what if I never come? What if I stay here?"
I looked her directly in the eyes.
"Then I'll be at peace, knowing you are safe. That you live your life. And that will be enough for me."
The evening was quiet. Neseret sat close to me, the child asleep in a woven basket, and between us hung a tension we both felt. Her eyes lingered on me longer than necessary. Then she reached out, her fingers brushing against my hand.
"You don't have to leave right away," she whispered. Her voice was soft, but it carried more than just a request. There was a feeling inside it, one she tried to hide, but I could hear it.
Slowly, I pulled my hand away from hers and looked straight into her eyes. "Neseret," I said quietly, "I can't. It isn't right."
She frowned, as if she didn't understand. "But… I'm alone. You're here. You've done more for me than anyone else."
"That's exactly why," I interrupted her gently but firmly. "I owe you more than you realize. But I cannot be the one you are looking for. My fate is to move forward, to serve the Pharaoh, to do what I was sent here to do. If I gave in, I would destroy what we have built."
She fell silent. Her eyes glistened, but she didn't press further. She turned toward the child, and I knew she would say nothing more.
That night I lay awake for a long time, listening to her quiet breathing. Inside me was an emptiness worse than pain. The gods had taken love from me—and with it, the ability to feel. If I allowed her to have me, it would only be a lie. And she didn't deserve a lie.
The morning was cold. The sun's first rays barely touched the walls when I rose. Neseret and her child were still asleep. On the table, I left a small object—a carved piece of wood I had made for her. Something to remember me by, for the day she might need me again.
Quietly, I stepped out of the house and did not look back.
My steps led straight to the palace. I knew that today my path would change forever—I would become the Pharaoh's advisor. And everything I had done until now had only been preparation.