The Eyes That Would Not Close



She was meant to sleep until the river forgot her name. The wrappings held for a thousand quiet years, linen gone thin as old papyrus, gold still warm at her throat. Then a draft moved through the burial chamber, and the blue woke first.
Not torchlight. Not reflection. Her own eyes, soft and certain, opening on sandstone and hieroglyphs she had once ordered carved. The bandages sighed as she rose. Arms lifted, not in the rigid blessing of the dead, but loose, as if she were testing whether the world still had weight. A dark tail curled behind her. Ears pricked toward the candles someone had left burning at the threshold.
Dust turned in the air like slow sparks. She did not call for priests. She did not ask the hour. She only listened, and the pyramid, very carefully, listened back.
Somewhere above the stone, the night was young. Below it, a cat-eared queen decided she was finished being a relic.

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