Khenemet, young and hungry, agreed without understanding.
Khenemet looked up from his pot. “I want to hold a word still. Like a bee in amber.” hieroglyph pro
Khenemet was not a prince or a priest. He was the son of a potter, born with a crooked spine and a hunger inside him that food could not satisfy. He saw shapes in the cracks of dried earth, stories in the flight of ibises, patterns in the ripple of water that no one else noticed. But every morning, the hunger would return—a nameless ache to keep what he saw, to trap the fleeting world in something more permanent than memory. Khenemet, young and hungry, agreed without understanding