You struggle to decide where to place this particular copy. Technically, it would fit best within the Hall of Knowledge, and perhaps that room is better-prepared to house papyrus. However, to you, this poem is undeniably a treasure. So, the Hall of Glory it is. You find a lovely spot for it next to a jackal-headed statue, and sit before it, closing your eyes and concentrating on its future.

Three scenarios flash before you in quick succession.

In the first, sand is the protagonist. You watch as room upon room of the tomb becomes full of coarse, yellow sand. Then your sight focuses on the parchment you just laid to rest. Quickly, it becomes corroded, illegible, this copy of Cordelia’s legacy lost forever.

In the second, the sand is mostly absent, but it is clear nothing can escape the terror of the passing of time. You see the parchment you copied out becoming more and more faded until it is barely legible. Then you watch as men invade the tomb. But they are not like the tomb raiders you have seen walking around.

Instead, these are well-dressed white men who seem to destroy everything as they pass: statues, weaponry and, of course, paper. As if to escape the chaos that ensues, the tomb transforms around you, and you are transported somewhere else, to a large, marble-floored room that you would almost mistake for your own temple if not for the presence of that strange, unnatural white light other Chosen describe as “electrical”. There, you can see barely a scrap of Cordelia’s work displayed behind glass alongside a number of other shards and knick-knacks. Her name is nowhere to be seen, and the scholars that seem to populate this temple don’t appear to give the display a second glance.

The third vision then comes as an offshoot of the second. Before you, you watch the glass display become something more akin to a rectangular frame while Cordelia’s work reconstructs itself and expands to almost its full length. You peek at the informational slip that seems to accompany it and, while you find some text speculating on trade activities between Latin-speaking domains and the Ancient Egyptian New Kingdom, Cordelia’s name is still nowhere in sight, nor are there any details about the poem in particular. Still, this display seems to be more popular, although still not particularly so. Some scholars seem to stop to look at it for a few minutes, but most only give it a quick glance before moving on to somewhere else. Your heart shrinks.

Is this really Cordelia’s fate? Just being forgotten?

But then, you pick up on something. Amongst the endless sea of scholars that stop by Cordelia’s work, there is one in particular who seems to appear more and more often: a person with short hair which is, inexplicably to you, a deep shade of blue. You see them come in once, twice, then tens, dozens of times, each time spending longer and longer analysing Cordelia’s work with a small notepad. In the last visit you catch as your vision fades, the blue-haired scholar is shaking hands with a woman in a suit.

“It was a very impressive project proposal indeed,” you hear her say as your vision fades to black. And then, one final echo: “We are expecting great things from you, Mx. Sanchez.”

You come back to with tears in your eyes. You know it’s just a one-in-three chance, but you find yourself expecting great things from Mx. Sanchez too.