CONTINUATION

...Anteus...

...𖤓 ₊ ݁ ⋆ᨒ˚.⋆𓀛⋆.˚ᨒ⋆ ݁ ₊ 𖤓...

The morning light poured into the room, warm and golden, yet it felt cruel against my skin. I rose reluctantly, my body heavy from a night without sleep, my mind still tangled in the shadows of what I had seen. The houses outside, once cloaked in darkness, now glowed in the sun’s embrace, their mudbrick walls painted in streaks of orange and yellow. Yet to me, they seemed hollow, as though the night had left a stain that daylight could not wash away. 

“Anteus, are you awake?” Menophis’ voice called from beyond the door, steady but tinged with concern. 

“Yes, wait a moment,” I muttered, brushing my hair back, staring into the bronze mirror. My eyes looked troubled, restless, carrying the weight of the night. 

When I stepped out, Menophis stood with a basket in hand, his robes simple, his face lined with years as he studied me, his gaze heavy. “You did not sleep well,” he said. 

I hesitated, then spoke. “Menophis… last night, I saw something, there are shadows moving. I heard a cry cut short... I thought it was a dream, but I know it wasn’t. Something was out there.” 

His expression shifted, the warmth in his eyes dimming. He set the basket down slowly, his hands trembling just slightly. “You saw them,” he said quietly. “I had hoped you would not, not so soon.” 

“What are they?” I pressed. “What did I see? Tell me.” 

Menophis looked at me for a long moment, his lips pressed tight. I expected for the old man to spare me from the truth. “I don't know”

He placed a calming hand over my shoulder, patting slowly before he pulls away. “Listen, there are things in Egypt that walk when they should not. Things that hunger when men sleep. You saw their shadows. That is enough for now.” 

“That is not enough,” I said, my voice cracking. “I need to know. I need to understand.” 

He shook his head, his gaze drifting toward the window. “Not now. I will explain, but first I must go to the market. If you are to live here, supplies are needed, grain, oil, figs. When I return, we will speak.” 

I stepped forward, desperate. “Menophis, please. You cannot leave me with only shadows. I am not a child. I saw them. I am not a fool.” 

The old man's eyes softened, though his voice remained firm. “And that is why I must go. This is not the right time. Trust me, Anteus. I will return.” 

I wanted to protest, but his tone carried finality that made me stop. He picked up the basket, adjusted his robe, and stepped out into the sunlit street.I had not expected for my new life in Egypt to turn this way.

The hours dragged. 

The grains of time fall ever so slowly.

I waited, pacing the room, restless, my thoughts circling the night’s shadows. Each moment without Menophis deepened my unease. He should have returned by now. 

No, he promised he will.

So, I sat by the window, staring at the streets below. Merchants called out their wares, grain, fish, oil. Children darted between stalls, laughter ringing out. The women carried jars of water balanced on their heads, their steps graceful despite the weight. Life moved on, vibrant and loud, indifferent to my fear. Yet I could not see the merriment as I had before. Every smile seemed hollow, every laugh distant, every gesture blurred by the heaviness pressing against my chest. 

The scarab lay on the table, its carved lines catching the sunlight. I picked it up, turning it in my hand. Menophis had said it meant renewal, life. But what life had taken his voice last night, when he spoke of shadows? 

The silence of the house pressed against me. My stomach tightened, not from hunger but from dread. I rose, paced, sat again. The sun climbed higher, its heat pressing against the walls, suffocating. 

Finally, I could bear it no longer. I stepped outside, the streets alive with merchants and voices, the scent of bread and spices thick in the air. I searched, weaving through the crowd, calling his name softly at first, then louder. 

“Menophis?” 

“Menophis!”

No answer. 

I moved through the crowd, calling softly at first, then louder. “Menophis? Has anyone seen Menophis?” 

A woman balancing a jar of water on her head glanced at me briefly, then muttered something in Egyptian I could not understand. Her eyes lingered on me, wary, before she turned away without a word. 

I turned to a merchant arranging baskets of figs. His hands were stained with juice, his fingers quick and practiced as he stacked the fruit. “Please, the old man, Menophis. He lives nearby. He went to the market early this morning, he did not come home. Have you seen him?” 

The merchant frowned, his eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. He looked at me with a guarded expression, then spoke slowly in broken Greek. “Menophis… yes. But why do you ask? You are not his blood.” 

“I am his guest,” I insisted. “He welcomed me. He gave me food, shelter. He is… he is my friend.” 

The merchant’s eyes narrowed. He did not answer, only shook his head and returned to his figs. 

I pressed on, desperation rising. “He carries a basket, simple robes, his hair gray. He is kind, gentle. Please, someone must have seen him.” 

A group of children paused in their play, staring at me with wide eyes. One boy whispered to another, and they laughed nervously before running off. 

An older man leaned on his staff, his gaze steady. He spoke in Egyptian, words I could not grasp, but his tone was firm, dismissive. Another passerby translated roughly, “Your tongue is foreign. Your words are not trusted. Go back, foreign blood.” 

Others did not even bother to answer. A woman selling bread looked at me once, her eyes narrowing, then turned her back as though I had never spoken. A man carrying jars of oil brushed past me, his gaze cold, deciding in that instant that I was not worth his time. 

Their silence carried weight. Menophis’ name was not one to be shared with strangers. 

No one answered further. The market swallowed my words, indifferent. My heart sank, desperation turning into hopelessness.

It is then that I realized these people do not understand. It reminds me of the people of Greece all over again.

It seems my mentor was right, ignorance run in rivers.

“If none of you does not want to help, I would find him myself” I uttered, pushing past men haggling over grain, past women bargaining for oil, past children chasing each other through the dust. Their voices rose around me, but I heard none of it clearly. My mind was heavy, my thoughts circling the shadows of last night. The world seemed blurred, as though I walked through a dream. 

Then, as I pressed deeper into the crowd, someone shoved me hard in the shoulder. I stumbled, nearly falling, catching myself only because of the desperate energy that clung to me. The cruel laughter followed, sharp and cruel. A voice spat a curse in Egyptian, the words unfamiliar but the venom unmistakable. Another muttered something under his breath, a slur I did not understand, but the tone carried contempt. 

I straightened, my breath ragged, my heart pounding as I clung to a nearby stall. Their faces blurred together, the men with sun-darkened skin, women with sharp eyes, children darting between them, all busy with their trade, their lives, their rhythm. None of them cared for me, none of them trusted me. I was an intruder, a Greek, a tourist, not worth their time. 

But I did not dwell on them, my mind is set on the old man, his face flashing in my memories as I held it close.The alleys narrowed, the noise of the market fading behind me. My sandals scuffed against the dust as I turned a corner... and stopped. 

My body froze.

There, half-hidden beneath a pile of sacks and discarded baskets, lay a figure. At first, I thought it was refuse, a heap of cloth and burden left behind. But then I saw the robe, the familiar pattern woven into its fabric, the faint stitching I had noticed when Menophis first welcomed me. 

My breath caught. My heart thudded painfully. 

“Menophis…” 

I pulled the sacks aside, my hands trembling. His body was crumpled, his limbs bent awkwardly, his basket spilled beside him, figs crushed into the dirt. His face was pale—so pale it seemed drained of life itself. His lips were cracked, his eyes half-open, staring at nothing. His veins stood out faintly against his skin, dark and hollow, like rivers run dry. 

I searched frantically for wounds, for the mark of a knife, for any sign of violence. There was nothing. No blood, no cut, no bruise. Only that terrible pallor, that emptiness, as though something had sucked the very essence from him. 

I fell to my knees, my chest tightening, my throat burning. Tears blurred my vision, spilling down my cheeks as I clutched his robe. 

“Why… why did you open your door to me, only to leave me like this?” My voice cracked, breaking into sobs. “You welcomed me as though I were your son, though I was nothing but a stranger. You gave me bread, you gave me kindness, and now you are gone. Why did it have to be you?” 

My fingers dug into the fabric of his robe, desperate to hold onto something, anything. “You said you would return. You promised me answers. And now… now you lie here, hidden beneath sacks, discarded as though your life meant nothing. But it meant everything to me. You were the only one who made me feel less alone in this place.” 

I pressed my forehead against his chest, though it was cold, lifeless. “I should have stopped you. I should have begged you not to go. I should have told you how afraid I was. And now it is too late.” 

The world around me blurred, the laughter of children, the cries of merchants, the hum of life, all of it seemed cruel, indifferent to the death of the man who had opened his door to me. 

Egypt is cruel. So cruel.

I sobbed, my voice breaking into the silence of the alley. “What is Egypt hiding? What took you from me?.” 

But there was no answer. Only the stillness of his body, the emptiness of his eyes, and the weight of shadows pressing against my heart. 

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***