But it’s for the best. Georgia made her choice. I made mine. Now we can both move forward.
Tonight, I’ll draft emails to universities, reach out to other experts in the field. Someone will jump at the chance to lead this excavation. The discovery is significant enough that finding a replacement shouldn’t be difficult.
The sun is setting as I walk toward the excavation site. The desert takes on that golden quality my grandmother always described—everything touched by honey-colored light, the shadows long and soft. Beautiful, if you’re in the mood to appreciate it.
I’m not.
The lovers’ tomb sits there, partially uncovered, the stonework visible where Georgia’s team exposed it. We’d only just begun the real documentation when everything fell apart, when she chose to leave rather than work within reasonable parameters.
I crouch beside the tomb, running my hand over the carved stone. The craftsmanship is extraordinary, even I can see that. Whoever these people were, someone loved them enough to create something beautiful for them. Something meant to last forever.
This is what matters. This discovery. This proof that my grandmother’s stories were real. Not the drama of the past day. Not Georgia’s inability to see the bigger picture.
The carvings catch the sunset light, and I lean closer to examine them. Georgia had started documenting these, taking photographs and notes. Now, that work sits unfinished, waiting for whoever comes next.
The images tell a story. I can see that now, looking at them in sequence. There are two figures, I imagine the people buried here, and their story plays out in panels around the tomb’s exterior.
In the first panel, they’re meeting. Their postures suggest surprise, perhaps conflict. They’re turned slightly away from each other, not quite facing.
In the second panel, they’re closer, angled toward each other. The carving shows them working together on something—I can’t tell what; that part is broken off. But their body language has shifted from opposition to cooperation.
In the third panel, they’re finally touching. Their hands are clasped, their foreheads are close. The intimacy is evident even in stone.
To my surprise, in the fourth panel they’re apart again. Turned away from each other, the space between them carved deeper, emphasized. This is separation. This is loss.
Fifth panel: One figure is alone, reaching toward empty space where the other should be. The loneliness in that carved gesture is expertly rendered.
Sixth panel: They’re together again. Not just close, but intertwined. The carving is more elaborate here, more detailed. This is a reunion. This is choosing each other after everything.
In the final panel, they’re lying side by side, hands clasped and eyes closed in death, surrounded by symbols I don’t understand. Forever. Together. Complete.
I sit back on my heels, studying the progression. It’s a compelling narrative. The kind of thing that will make excellent material for publications, for museum exhibitions. People love a good love story, especially one preserved for millennia.
But looking at it makes me uncomfortable. The discomfort sits in my chest, making it hard to breathe properly.
I stand abruptly. This is the problem. This is why I need to find Georgia’s replacement as soon as possible. The site is sitting here, undocumented, while I waste time staring at carvings and feeling… whatever this is. Frustration, probably. At the situation. At being without a head archaeologist. At the project timeline slipping away while I scramble to find someone qualified.
That’s all this is. Project anxiety. The pressure of knowing we have something significant here but lacking the expertise to move forward with it.
It has nothing to do with Georgia specifically. Any competent archaeologist could complete this work. I just need to find them.
I turn away from the tomb and walk back toward camp. The team is gathered near the kitchen area, everyone staying busy, but I can feel the somber mood. They’re probably mad at me, thinking that I pushed Georgia away.
They all look up as I approach, and I see the question in their faces. What happens now?
“We need to have a meeting,” I announce. “Dining tent. Five minutes.”
They exchange glances but move to comply.
I use those five minutes to pace outside the tent, organizing my thoughts. I need to be clear. Decisive. Show them that we’re moving forward, that Georgia’s departure hasn’t derailed anything.
When everyone is assembled, I stand at the head of the table. “I know the past twenty-four hours have been… challenging,” I begin. “Dr. Halford’s decision to leave was unexpected, but we need to move forward. I’ll be reaching out to potential replacements tonight. With a discovery of this significance, I’m confident we’ll have qualified candidates interested in?—”
“How long will that take?” Edmond interrupts gently. “Finding someone, getting them here, getting them up to speed on what Dr. Halford already documented?”
“It’s… hard to say.”
“And in the meantime?” Omar asks. “Do we continue with the documentation?”
