He does not bow when he is brought before the throne.
Not out of defiance. Simply because it does not occur to him to do so.
Yesh stands as he is—dust at the hem of his robes, travel still in his bones—while the court arranges itself into something like expectation.
His throat tightened, and his voice cracked again, more broken now.
“Don’t forget me,” he whispered once more, softer, a plea meant for no one but the stones around him.
“Don’t forget me…”
“…if not now, then when?”
On the throne sits the man they call Pharaoh, draped in symbols heavy enough to pass for divinity if one does not look too closely.
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Egypt rises around him in heat and light, white stone and gold catching the sun until it almost hurts to look at. The palace is worse—too large, too polished, every surface reflecting something back at itself as though the place cannot bear to look outward.
think he would recognise Heaven even if it opened beneath his feet?”
Gold, linen, the careful stillness of someone who has learned that even breathing can be read as weakness.
Yesh studies him the way he might study a storm rolling in over the sea—not with fear, but with a quiet, searching attention.
“You have built something vast,” he says at last.
Eyes flicker. Hands still. The air tightens around the moment, waiting for him to understand where he is.
He does.
He just refuses to be changed by it.
“You speak of the Kingdom of Heaven as though it is waiting somewhere far away.”
The carpenter sat on the edge of the fountain wall, turning a splinter of olive wood between his fingers.
“But if a man cannot be kind to the people already in front of him, what makes him
