We Were Never Lost – Chapter Two: He was searching for something not found in tombs… older than kings, more elusive than their relics.

There was nothing between us and the pyramids but a taxi ride.
A short trip… it could’ve ended in half an hour.
But something kept us lingering in Ramses Station, as if we weren’t waiting for transportation, but for a hidden signal only we could recognize.

My father sat at the edge of the wooden bench, motionless, silent, staring into a void we couldn’t see.
On the surface, he looked as exhausted as the rest of us… but I felt something different.
His eyes weren’t lost, they were focused – almost too focused – as if searching for something among the crowd.

Then he did something strange.
He took out a small, carefully folded piece of paper from his bag.
He opened it slowly, and the moment my eyes caught sight of it, a chill ran through my skin.
I didn’t know why.

In the corner of the paper, there was a tiny sketch of a hand holding an upside-down pyramid, with a childlike Arabic phrase written beneath it.
It wasn’t a map, nor a ticket… but a clipping from an old newspaper, seemingly part of an article discussing strange symbols engraved on the walls of Cairo’s poorer neighborhoods.

I didn’t understand at first why my father carried that piece of paper.
What shocked me was that we had passed by the same ad earlier on the road.
And when I asked him what the phrase meant, he said:

“Cleanliness begins from within!”

I didn’t understand how he knew what it meant – he didn’t speak Arabic… or so I thought.
We laughed, poked fun at the idea, and said it was probably a desperate attempt to blend Pharaonic symbolism into soap marketing.
But my father had stopped in front of it longer than the rest of us, gazing at it in a strange silence, as if the faded ad carried a meaning invisible to our eyes – as if he were reading a message that hadn’t been written for us.
Even I felt an odd shiver. The drawing, though childish, looked strangely majestic.

Now, I saw the exact same symbol on the paper in his hand.
He stared at it as though it held a code.
And I… began to tremble a little.
Some of the symbols we thought trivial… he clearly didn’t.
He was reading something we couldn’t.
And for the first time, I realized he wasn’t chasing myths.
He was following a trail.

---

As I silently watched my father, a strange vision crept into my mind… I didn’t know where it came from, or when it had happened:
We were on a plane, flying above an endless desert. I was looking out the window, seeing straight lines carved into the sand, massive circles as if drawn for an eye that did not belong to this Earth.
Then I turned to my father – he appeared asleep… or so I thought.
But he was whispering words I didn’t understand, in a language I had never heard before, eyes closed.
And then, the vision vanished… as if someone had switched it off from within me and brought me back to the wooden bench at the station.

Before I could ask him anything, an old man sat down beside us.
He wore a faded galabiya and a tattered turban, carried a cloth bag, and held a curved-headed staff – one that seemed made not merely for walking, but for carrying something older than the road itself.
His features radiated a peculiar strangeness… his skin was dark brown, and his appearance suggested he came from one of those regions shown in Death on the Nile, starring Peter Ustinov – whom my father often described as the embodiment of effortless brilliance.

I had watched the movie with him one night, and I remembered a scene where a man waved at Poirot from a crowded bazaar, wearing a galabiya and turban just like this, with that dual expression – as if he was from the place, yet not of it.

I looked again at the man who had just sat down, and realized I’d seen that face before.
In a film? Maybe.
But now, it was entirely real. So was the man.
His gaze was sharp. His voice – calm and deep.
For a moment, I felt he didn’t belong here, as if he were in disguise, trying to look like one of them.

He began speaking in heavy Arabic, and when he received no reply, he suddenly switched to English – a crisp, British accent, academic and refined, like something out of Oxford.

Smiling, he said:

“Are you lost?”

My father didn’t respond. But he smiled.

The man pointed with his cane at the travelers and continued:

“We’re all lost – just not in the same way.
Some get lost while walking,
some while sitting,
and some while thinking they’ve already arrived.”

My mother let out a light chuckle, as if trying to mask a fear she couldn’t explain.
“You sound like a poet,” she said.

He laughed too, then lit a cigarette.
His voice shifted.
He no longer spoke like a simple man – but like a philosopher in ragged clothes.
Then, in slow, clear English, he spoke as if delivering a declaration in an old hall:

“We think we are living the height of civilization,
measuring our progress by satellites and skyscrapers,
but what if we’ve never reached the peak of awareness?
What if we’ve only reached the peak of the machine –
while true consciousness has been eroding for thousands of years?
We may not be at the height of humanity…
but at the height of what humanity has made.”

A moment of silence followed.
It was as if the entire station held its breath.
Even the noise receded – in reverence to what had been said.
His words clashed violently with his worn-out appearance.

I realized then – he had spoken something heavy.
When I glanced at my mother, I found her staring at the man, her mouth agape with rare astonishment.
She wasn’t easily impressed – especially by words.
Even my father, who had spent his life among books, always chose his words carefully with her.
And now that she looked genuinely stunned, it meant those words were worthy.

My father kept looking at him – not in surprise, but as one who had found something familiar… something long known.

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And for the first time since the journey began…
I felt that our wandering wasn’t aimless.
There, amid the silence, I realized something I couldn’t explain.
I began to feel that my father wasn’t driven by curiosity alone – but by something guiding him.
Something no one else could see.
That he wasn’t seeking artifacts, nor a mummy or a royal tomb –
but something far older than all of that…
Something not waiting in museums, but in a place no map could reveal.

And this…
was just the beginning.