At court, days were not counted. Only service was. Water had to flow, food had to arrive on time, stones had to be carried from the courtyard to the storehouse. None of it was glorious, none of it was ever written down on papyrus.
I was just another shadow carrying jars.
That day I stood in the corner of the great hall as priests walked in with their offerings. On the floor before the throne lay a mosaic of precious stone—an image of Horus with wings spread wide. It was old, but every day slaves scrubbed it until it shone.
As I waited, I noticed something small. One of the stones in the wing was cracked. Not much—just a thin line most eyes would have missed. But I knew what a crack in stone meant. My father had been a stonemason. He had taught me as a child: a crack means the stone will soon give way.
I realized that if the priest stepped on it today with his sandals rimmed with metal, the stone could split, and the mosaic would collapse right before the throne.
I was no one, but my feet betrayed me. I stepped forward. A guard seized my shoulder at once.
"Where do you think you're going, eunuch?" he hissed.
I pointed at the mosaic. "The stone… it's broken," I whispered.
The guard laughed and was about to drag me away, but then one of the elder priests came closer. He stopped, looked where I was pointing, then knelt. His fingers brushed the surface, and he too saw the thin line.
"Stop the procession," he commanded. His voice carried across the hall. Silence fell. Other priests leaned down and saw it as well.
Within moments, they ordered the stone to be replaced.
No one looked at me. No one said thank you. But I noticed that the elder priest, the one who had first checked, glanced at me for just a brief moment with something like thought behind his eyes.
That was all. A meaningless gesture that changed nothing in history. But to me, it meant more than anyone would think.
For the first time, someone noticed that a shadow had seen what others had ignored.
A few days later, I was once again standing in the corridor with a jar of water when he approached me. The same elder priest who had noticed my finger pointing at the crack.
"You," he said simply, and gestured for me to follow.
He led me into a smaller chamber filled with papyri, scales, and stone tablets. The air smelled of ink and old parchment. It was not a room where eunuchs were usually allowed to step.
"How did you know about that stone?" he asked.
"My father… was a stonemason," I answered carefully. "Seeing a crack is simple."
He studied me, as though searching for a lie. "Do you read?"
I shook my head. "A little. Signs another eunuch taught me."
He handed me a scrap of papyrus with numbers. "How much is this?"
I stared at the marks, thought for a moment, and gave the answer. I wasn't sure, but his eyes glimmered faintly. "Correct."
He gave me another problem, this time about the size of a stone block. I drew a small sketch, showing how it should be placed so it would not split.
He was silent for a long time. Then he only nodded and said, "Return to your duties."
And left.
I thought it was over. But the next day, he called me again. He had me weigh measures. Then he showed me a drawing of a temple courtyard and asked me to mark the weak points. Always without praise, only with a curt, "Go."
Other eunuchs began to mock me. "So you're the great sage now?" they whispered. But I kept silent. I did not need their approval.
Every question was like a door opening before me. And I knew that if I walked through enough of them, one day I might cease to be just a shadow.
And though to him I was still only "the eunuch," for me, it was the first step.
The first look back.
On the third day, when he summoned me again into the chamber filled with papyri, I already knew it was no coincidence. This time he made me wait while he wrote on parchment. Sunlight streamed through a tall window, casting stripes of light across his white tunic.
When he finally looked up, his eyes were dark and piercing.
"What is your name?" he asked.
I hesitated. Should I tell the truth? Kheper was the name my father had given me, but that name had been stolen. At court I was known as Amenemhet. So I bowed my head and answered, "Amenemhet, master."
He was silent for a moment, as though weighing my words. Then he nodded.
"Very well, Amenemhet… my name is Panes. I am the overseer of temple accounts and in charge of the building works. If you are ever needed, you will come when I call."
That was all. Simple words, without grandeur or emotion. Yet to me, they meant more than months of silence. For the first time, someone of power introduced himself to me by name. For the first time, I was not just "the eunuch."
"Yes, master," I whispered.
Panes bent once more over his papyrus, as though I no longer existed. But I carved his name into my memory like a chisel into stone. Because a name meant I had been seen.
And though I was still only a shadow, now there was someone who might one day pull me out of the darkness.