Here's the passage reorganized for clarity:
She took out her phone after the car started moving and typed a message to someone named Adam:
"Where are you? I've been here for hours and went straight to the bookstore like I told you. They said someone took the book before me—was it you?"
She waited a moment, then her phone rang with Adam's reply:
"Yes, I have it now. I couldn't wait any longer for you to get it. I went to the bookstore this morning and found it myself. I just started reading, you'll miss the first few pages…"
Mandine read the message, then put her phone back in her purse and looked out the car window. The city appeared to be burning, the desert only minutes away. The wind carried light sand from the desert, disturbing the air. To those who looked closely, the air seemed filled with fine grains of sand. If you headed towards the desert from here, you'd soon find yourself standing before the great pyramids—before the civilization of the Pharaohs, as though you were facing the ancient pyramids themselves.
This city brought back memories for Mandine, memories of her childhood when she dreamed of traveling to Egypt. She had always been fascinated by history and had dreamed of becoming an archaeologist and historian. Today, she was on the verge of realizing that dream.
"I remember the first time my mother bought me a book for my birthday," Mandine whispered to herself, gazing out the window. "I was nine years old at the time."
She recalled her mother's words:
"Imagination is all that humans have. It is in their minds, and no one has power over it. But beyond imagination, humans are slaves to their own ways."
Mandine hadn't understood this then; she was just excited to have the book. But those words stuck with her until today.
The book was a novel by a young Canaanite man from ancient Egypt, who told the story of his life. The novel started with the line:
"From here, we begin the story of this young man and this great city. But the beginning is not here. You may ask, 'Where is the beginning?' I simply answer you that I don't know, for we don't truly know history. We don't know when these great civilizations began or how. We don't know how time began, or how man built those pyramids. Perhaps it's because humans are destined to forget beginnings, just as they forget the early years of their lives. And if you think that's all we don't know, you're wrong. We don't know much more. We don't know our real history. We are ignorant of ourselves."
This line sparked many questions in Mandine. She read numerous books about Egypt, searching for an answer to the writer's question: "How did this civilization begin?" Some books said Egypt was built with magic; others claimed it couldn't have been built by humans at that time using the available means, suggesting it was an extraterrestrial city.
Her passion for books waned, and she was disappointed for a while, realizing that books may not hold all the answers to our questions. She realized that writers might sometimes just say, "I don't know." She thought writers knew everything, but over time, she understood that they, too, are human beings, and humans are "ignorant, ignorant even to themselves."
Months later, her passion for books returned when she understood this truth. It was then she decided to travel to Egypt.
One morning, when Mandine was twelve, she brought up the idea to her mother:
"Can we spend our summer vacation in Egypt, Mom?"
Her mother laughed. "Why would a twelve-year-old girl want to go to Egypt?"
"I want to see the pyramids and find out why they were built."
Her mother leaned toward her, bringing their faces to the same level.
"It's very far away, Mandine, but you will see it in the future. You will study, get a job, and travel to Egypt to see the pyramids."
Mandine shook her little head and muttered, "I promise I will." Her mother smiled in return.
Mandine knew her mother said this to encourage her to study, and it worked. Mandine worked hard to be the best in everything and excel in her studies. She succeeded in this, and though she visited Egypt many times afterward, she never went to the pyramids. Every time she approached them, she feared that seeing them would make her lose her passion for them.
She promised herself that she would volunteer to be an archaeologist in Egypt when she finished her studies, to search the wilderness for the secrets of this land and try to decode its ancient civilizations. She graduated from high school with an excellent average and decided to study history.
However, her mother, who had instilled that spirit in her, eventually took it away when she supported her father's wish for Mandine to study something else. Her father wanted her to choose medicine, to follow in his footsteps, but Mandine insisted on studying ancient history. Though her father didn't force her to change her mind, he wasn't happy about it.
Mandine still felt guilty about not pursuing her father's dream. The guilt weighed on her like she had killed someone and abandoned them in a distant forest, waiting for them to reveal themselves.
Her mother, supporting her father's decision, said, "I hope you don't regret your choice. I don't remember a successful person immortalized in history who was a scientist. History is meant to be read about, to read about great people in various fields—those who contributed to advancing humanity, just like doctors. You have the right average. How can you give up your father's dream so easily? He always wanted you to be as successful as he was, to be his successor. Think carefully, dear. Don't waste this opportunity. History is not that important. There are plenty of scientists studying that finished thing called history. Two more hands in medicine can heal a thousand people in pain."
Mandine thought about her mother's words. Doesn't everyone have their own dream? A dream that isn't interfered with by the rest of humanity, a dream that the heart and mind don't question? A dream that no one has control over. Everyone spends their life trying to achieve it.
She disagreed with her mother but didn't want to argue. She understood her mother's perspective well—everyone looked up to her father, even her mother. Her mother had once been a hopeful graduate in English Literature but ended up settling for being a "good housewife" when her career didn't work out. Mandine understood why her mother mentioned regret; it was because she had regretted her choices and didn't want Mandine to make the same mistakes.
But Mandine enrolled in history school anyway. Now, here she was, months away from graduation.
Mandine took a deep breath and looked out at the city again. The city still seemed to be on fire. The desert remained close by. She looked down the street again, this time not recalling any memories—although memories never truly leave the windows.