Maya's Gentle Strength

The air in the pharaoh’s tomb hung thick and still, a silent testament to millennia of slumber. Dust motes danced in the slivers of moonlight that pierced the cracks in the stone ceiling, illuminating hieroglyphs that whispered tales of forgotten kings and queens. Maya, the playful mummy, lay nestled in her sarcophagus, a soft, contented sigh escaping her linen-wrapped lips. She dreamt of sun-drenched deserts and the joyous echo of laughter, a stark contrast to the eternal quiet that usually enveloped her.

Suddenly, a faint tickle, a mere whisper against her papyrus skin, disturbed the edges of her dream. It was an unfamiliar sensation, a tiny, persistent irritation that refused to be ignored. Maya stirred, a faint rustle of bandages her only movement. The tickle intensified, a bolder, more insistent sensation this time, as if a minuscule creature were weaving its way through the ancient cloth.

With a groan that vibrated through the very stones of her resting place, Maya’s eyes flickered open. Her ancient gaze, accustomed to the perpetual darkness, adjusted slowly to the faint luminescence. The tickle was now a definite itch, and it was coming from *inside* her sarcophagus. A wave of annoyance, as ancient and deep as the tomb itself, washed over her. Who dared disturb her eternal rest?