The sky cracked.
Not once, not twice—but again and again, until thunder became a rhythm,and lightning a language the gods were shouting through.
Neferet didn't flinch. She didn't bow. She only looked up,heart wide open, waiting for the mercy she had begged for.
Then it came.
A seam in the sky.A sliver of light that shimmered, then split.And before she could speak, before she could breathe,the world disappeared.
The wind was gone.The temple was gone.Even the weight of her body was gone.
She was falling—but not down.
She was being pulled, compressed, turned inside out.
Around her, darkness spun like liquid glass.There was no up, no down, only motion—a spiral tunnel with no walls, no end.She felt her bones stretch and shrink, her heart beat like thunder,her soul spinning between dimensions.
It wasn't wind that brushed her skin,but something faster, more ancient—time itself.
She heard voices. Thousands of them.Laughing, crying, shouting, whispering.Languages she had never heard. Arguments. Songs.Moments in history flickering past like sparks.
Then—nothing.
Silence.Light.
And softness.
She opened her eyes to a white ceiling.Smooth. Seamless. Not stone. Not wood. Something else.
The air was still. Cool. Dry.No incense. No sand.
She sat up.She was in a bed—clean sheets, quiet room, glowing light above her head.
No torches. No servants. No temple.Just… wires. Screens. Machines.
And that light…It was round. Hanging from the ceiling.But no flame.
She touched it.It glowed. It hummed.
She was nowhere she had ever known.
She stood, heart pounding, walked barefoot to the door, and stepped outside.
No columns.No papyrus.No priests.
Only a small patio with smooth stone tiles, tall glass windows, and distant city noise—soft, strange, metallic.
Where was she?
The gods were supposed to reunite her with her love.Was he here?Had she been brought close to him, just in another form?
She turned, searching, but no one came.
Then—something else shifted.
Inside her mind.
Another self. Another voice.
Memories.
Not hers. But hers.
She knew the layout of this place. She knew the name of the city.
Los Angeles.
She knew how to speak this new language.
English.
She had a name.
Monica.
And she was not a queen.
She was a woman of numbers, of logic.A licensed CPA. A Chinese lady. A modern woman. A life.
She ran to the mirror.
What stared back was not Neferet.
It was a young woman with luminous eyes, dark hair, delicate features, and a sharp, intelligent gaze.
This wasn't her face.But it was now her face.
She touched her cheek.Was this a gift? A trick? A punishment?
She whispered to herself.
"What did you do to me?"
But no one answered.
A Kingdom Without Servants
Monica staggered through the small, unfamiliar dwelling like a ghost in a temple that no longer worshipped gods.
She was hungry.
She was thirsty.
She was... alone.
Where were the servants?
Where was the silver tray of figs and almonds?
The incense?
She scanned the room—bookshelves, pots, pans, even a gleaming row of knives. This, surely, was the kitchen, though no food was in plain sight. Only silence, and a strange, giant white box humming in the corner like a sleeping bull.
Its surface was smooth and cold. She touched it cautiously.
It had two small doors. She opened the top one. Cold air burst out. She jumped.
Inside: bags of frozen shrimp, neatly stacked berries, and cubes of ice. Beneath that, bright vegetables and cartons of white liquid. No meat. No wine.
"Gods," she whispered. "The person who lives here... is a vegetarian."
The most sinful thing in the house appeared to be eggs. And perhaps the shrimp—those poor half-creatures suspended in ice like miniature mummies.
Resigned, she grabbed a peach and bit into it.
Too sweet. Too juicy.
Too delicious.
Modern fruit, it seemed, was not without its magic.
But she was still thirsty.
She looked for a pitcher. A jug. A basin. Nothing.
Then she saw it—a curved silver pipe mounted above a shallow stone bowl. Beside it, a strange metal lever.
She touched it.
WATER gushed out.
She screamed.
Then stopped.
Then opened her mouth like a desperate animal and drank straight from the stream, her hands shaking.
So this... was modern plumbing.
Next: relief. A familiar sensation in her abdomen. She needed to—well, relieve herself.
She searched room after room until she found it: a strange white throne with no armrests, facing a mirror, next to yet another mysterious lever.
She sat.
Relieved.
Now what?
She stared at the little handle.
By now, she understood the rhythm of this world:
See a switch.Press the switch.Magic happens.
She pulled it.
A great rush of water spiraled downward, taking her offering with it.
She stood up, momentarily proud of herself.
She then went around the house pressing every switch she could find.
One turned on bright overhead lights.
Another warmed up the cold white box.
One made a sudden whirring noise in the ceiling.
She pressed one that blew hot air on her face.
Another started a strange buzzing from a black rectangle with numbers.
"This world," she muttered, "runs entirely on buttons."
She wasn't wrong.
Then she heard it.
A bark.
She froze.
Again—a bark, followed by the sound of claws on tile.
She turned.
A small creature stood staring at her with intense, unblinking eyes. A white, corgi. Low to the ground. Square-bodied.
Behind it—a giant beast, drooling and panting. A black rottweiler.
Dogs.
Two dogs.
No cats.
No cats?!
No sacred felines to guard the soul or protect the afterlife?
Only these barking beasts, wagging their tails like mindless servants?
She gasped.
"This... is barbaric."
What Happened to Our Kingdom?
Monica sat at the modern desk, the glow of the screen illuminating her face as she typed in trembling curiosity.She searched for the place she once called home—Egypt. But the Egypt she knew no longer existed.Gone were the temples, the sacred chants, the divine rule of the Two Lands.What stared back at her was a country shaped by different hands, governed by a different tongue.
Today's Egypt was Arab.Its people spoke Arabic, not the ancient Coptic or Greek she once heard echo through the palace halls.The polytheistic beliefs of Isis, Horus, and Osiris had long vanished, replaced by Islam.The god-kings, the pharaohs, were now only myths, entombed in museums and textbooks.Politically, the land had shifted from divine monarchy to military-backed republicanism, often marked by suppression and unrest.
She read on. The Egypt she had left had become something else.Its economy was unstable, plagued by inflation and foreign debt.Youth unemployment soared.The currency had collapsed, and international lenders now dictated much of its policy.The nation she had once dreamed would thrive under her and her husband's rule was now struggling to survive in a world that had outpaced it.She felt a wave of helplessness. Had her disappearance changed the course of history?
Then she remembered. Her daughter.What became of her?
She found records of a woman—Cleopatra VII—her daughter, who had risen to power alone.After her husband, the pharaoh, had vanished, it was this young queen who had defended Egypt with wit and diplomacy.She had fought against her own brother, Ptolemy XIII, who tried to strip her of power.She was exiled, then returned, aligning herself with Rome's Julius Caesar.She ruled with intelligence, charm, and strategy—outmaneuvering men who underestimated her.But in the end, even her brilliance could not save Egypt from the rising tide of Roman imperialism.
Cleopatra died by her own hand.Her kingdom absorbed into the Roman Empire.And yet, her name endured.
Monica sat back, tears welling in her eyes.She had missed it all—the courage, the pain, the legend her daughter became.She felt pride, yes, but also a sorrow too deep for words.The world she once helped build had collapsed and reshaped without her.
She closed the laptop. The room was quiet again.The hum of electricity replaced the rustle of papyrus.She lay down on the bed—soft, strange, unfamiliar—and closed her eyes.In her heart, a silent wish:May I awaken tomorrow not in this foreign world, but in the arms of the one I lost, in the land we once called our own.