Dark Melbourne streets held an extra chill this Easter, and I jumped as the door to the apartment block slammed shut behind me. Ever since I’d be working on this exhibit, I’d been jumpy. Tutankhamun was in our museum. And every single gold foiled Easter egg reminded me.

Now, I know that the stories of the curse associated with his tomb were phooey. After all, Howard Carter lived such a long time after he was in that tomb. But dead bodies made the museum feel eerie, and I resented the masses who came to boggle at the body of a boy.

It didn’t help that the curator had died suddenly from an aneursym, working late one night in the office, her pyramid paperweight lying askew on the ground. I had never seen her face so white, which they told me was just the paleness of death. I knew differently.

As her assistant, I was nominated to head to her home, where she lived alone. No children, a niece in Queensland who could not come and settle her affairs until next week. And she had a file the administrator needed. So here I was, in this old dark, creepy building in a dead woman’s apartment.

The elevator creaked ominously and smelled that aged, neglected smell of old buildings. On the 4th floor, I headed to apartment 7, the auspicious Egyptian number. Opening up the door, I was bombarded by the smell of antiquities.

Walking into the hallway, I noticed the old fashioned cane in the umbrella stand, the lilies on the table. It was beautiful appointed, everything in its place. I walked straight into her office, to her desk, where the manila folder was closed neatly. A stone scarab rested in front of an old photograph. I looked closer and recognised a young girl, resting on the lap of a man who could be her grandfather. Looking closer, I recognised the features. It was Lord Canarvon, the financier of the opening of Tutankhamun’s tomb. I recognised him from the photographs in the exhibition.

It must have been the curator’s mother. She was too young. But I could imagine Anne, the great-granddaughter of the famous backer, being enchanted by her family, pointing out the amazing discovery that happened all because of her great-grandfather. I smiled at the history, and wondered if anyone knew.

The window was open slightly and I went to look out over the park at the back of the building. A shooting star made me smile, until I realised it was headed straight at me! I squealed and dropped to the floor, as it sailed over my head. I turned around and found a flaming arrow, buried in the carpet. It started to shower on to the carpet and singe. I leapt up and grabbed the lilies, tipping them over the arrow, to stop the flames which spluttered out. I saw a little papyrus attached to the arrow.

That was it. I was out. I grabbed my file and ran, ringing the administrator and squealing the story out down the line. The door on the building almost hit me on the way out.

As I rounded the corner to my car, I saw a boy in a dark robe duck around the corner, near black eyes sparkling as he threw a dark smile my way.

My keys jangled loudly as I tried and failed to put the keys in the ignition. This was going to be one long exhibition.

Beneath the glass, her face was soft and sad. Even with preservation, she had aged slightly. It was a mask – hiding the animation and light she had possessed.

He had been travelling the world for centuries searching. Every isle had housed him for a time, as he scoured it for the signs of magic. Since his recovery, he’d known what he had been missing all along. And he knew that she had been protected by the very women who sent her his way. 

Here, he’d stumbled upon the quiet glade as he had walked through the forest. Something about the slanting light had enchanted him. 

This place had not been disturbed for a long time. A hint of the priestesses was there, in the carved steps into a gentle waterfall, the discarded pitcher by the water. Even the turtle regarding him from a rock had been placed for effect.

He’d heard the stories of Snow White and knew it had been a message to him. The poisoned apple, the description of his fair love, the magical dwarves who would have had to carry her here. He heard the message that she was ready to be saved. A directive. 

Beneath the glass, she waited for him. Her fair cheeks still blushing, lips red, dark hair in curly tangles. Unbidden, the memory of their softness and scent against his cheek made him shiver. 

His time walking had made him forget a love that was not without problems. Her indiscretion, he now knew, had been in part his error too. Leaving his wife alone to pace the turrets would destroy even the strongest of loves. His drive to be the best king, to possess that damned chalice. He only hoped that in her dreaming sleep that she would remember him fondly, with the love they once shared. He was sure he looked the brute now, with deep lines around his eyes and mouth, salt and pepper locks unkempt. He knew she would remember, regardless.

Trembling, his hands lay on the glass covering. He slowly removed her sarcophagus, taking care that it did not strike her. With great effort, he placed it on the ground. 

Hoping he had understood the messages of the priestesses, he bent slowly to her, hesitating a moment. His lips pressed hers with love, praying to all that was holy that he was the one meant to awaken her with a kiss. 

Beneath his mouth, he felt her lips moved. He stood up, watching her stretch languidly as a cat, smiling sleepily up at him. 

A second later her eyes unclouded and the rich emerald eyes pierced him with her stare. He could not distinguish which emotion reigned – hurt, distrust, aching love or confusion. 

“Arthur,” she said softy. “You came.”

From beneath the charred black soil, green shoots had begun to burst through. The fire had not broken them, it had given them life, a new start. Tom recognised the snow peas flowering and small tomato bushes taking over what used to be his garden patch. He smiled, knowing the birds would have a field day. It would be good to hear their chatter in the still valley again. What everyone forgot, he mused, was that the animals suffered too. Apart from that koala survivor on the news, there had been so few of them survive.

The day was as vivid in his mind as if it had been yesterday and not two years on. One eye had been warily watching the valley since morning as the horizons darkened with distant smoke. A simple phone call to a local SES member had given him the final drive to move along. The car had been already packed, wife and baby strapped in, before he took off. Everywhere they turned, roads were blocked. They were about to return down the same roads when the radio announced their valley had gone up. White faced, his wife was thin lipped and trembling beside him, and he had no words or time to comfort her.

They came across a pub, filled with other escapees. There was nowhere to go. Tacitly, the two of them agreed to stay. They parked near enough to protect the car, but far enough to avoid injury if it exploded. His wife settled in with the baby, and had her giggling playing with an old abacus. Tom joined able bodied men on the roof, wetting down the walls and roof until it was sodden. Old shirts became masks as they fought to breathe through the ash. The roaring intensified and the heat seared the flesh like an oven. It started to cross the oval at a nearby school, and the men scurried down under the showering embers. Inside, they gathered under the strongest part of the roof. Men were armed with water, aiming to wet the walls for as long as the pump lasted. His baby cried hard, coughing, spluttering, as his wife tried to stop her crying and protect her from the poisonous inhalations. The walls began steaming, and many cried out. The undercurrent of hurried prayers could almost be heard thrilling beneath the angry hissing of the walls.

It began to quieten, and looks of hope had begun appearing in the group. A shrill scream sounded, and Tom turned away from wetting the walls to see his wife wailing. Their baby lay limp in her arms. A school nurse rushed to her side and began CPR. There was someone radioing the emergency services, and all Tom could see was the little jerks made in his daughter as the nurse did compressions. She was so pale, and so still. Shock had him rooted to the spot. Tears were running down his face, and he turned to his wife, to see the exact expression mirrored in her face.

Their daughter had been buried 3 days later, because his wife had refused cremation. Her words, ‘Hasn’t the fire already taken enough?’, haunted his waking moments. Together, they had limped on for a time. In therapy, she’d said he’d never understood her and that he didn’t understand, marvelling at how he survived without their little girl, venom in every word. He knew then that they’d never get past it – he would always be to blame. And he could only take on all his own guilt, not anyone else’s. So he sat with her, and told her he was leaving, because there was no way out of this darkness together, and he was not here to light her way out. Quietly, she had understood, and known it was too late to fix. They parted, each hoping that one day there could be forgiveness and redemption for them both. And not having to be strong any more, he sobbed for weeks.

He broke down to his humblest parts. He ran away. Parts of his world he’d wanted to show her, the world he’d always wanted to see, he went to. And at the end of that time, he wanted to come home, to be close to her memory. So he did.

One day, in a city park in the middle of autumn, with all the leaves raining about like embers, a girl with kind eyes asked him why his eyes were full of echoes and grief. Without meaning to, he spilled his soul out to her. Every hurt was aired, every tear re-shed. It happened the time after, and the time after that. One night in their friendship, she took him to her arms and suddenly he felt light again. The goodness that girl turned upon him healed him inside out.

He knew he had found the woman that was his new life. And he knew he’d had to send off the old, before the new would be free. So on the anniversary of the fire, with her had on his arm, he had called his ex-wife, and asked her to come out and let it go. She accepted. And here he stood, waiting for redemption. Waiting to be free.

I had left to wander the world, as I had always said that I would. Each footstep over tranquil water, sliding beneath beautiful old bridges reminded me of you. Every moment with you was peace, you held me up and kept me safe.

For a while, I had hidden myself, tucked into my hardened shell, carrying the weight of my world. My world and the heaviest heart. I lazed on tropical beaches, basking in soothing sunlight and all I could feel was you by my side.

As I threw myself off a cliff, parachuting into the steamy, aromatic jungle, I saw your wide eyes filling with tears. It ripped the air from my lungs. In the silence over the leafy stillness, I can still hear your voice, it’s sad quietude, asking me to wait for you. But to do so would have destroyed us both. Time will heal it all.

I gave up the exotic, the strange, for places steeped in history. I climbed mountains to temples, prayed, but what I always prayed for was you. This was not what I intended.

Glumly, I reached Venice. I had planned to drink in the romance, but the buildings were dank, lacklustre, needing tenderness and care. Absorbed, I looked at the carnival masks, but their colours had leeched of brilliance.

I hiked to the Fountain di Trevi, to marvel in its brilliance. From this distance, there appeared a supplicant at its foot. Covered in a summer dress, their hair even looked like yours, twisting in a breeze.

You looked up, smiled and the sunshine came out.

You were here.