Wednesday morning arrived with a surprise.
Delia had just placed her bag on the research table when the sound of a forklift from the museum’s back entrance disturbed the morning calm.
Robin was already there, standing with his arms folded across his chest and a smile that Delia had learned to interpret as, “Get ready, there’s interesting work ahead!
Mwahahaha!” “Good morning, Mr.
Robin,” Delia greeted.
“Morning, young curator full of energy…” Robin nodded toward the back door.
“Before you start your final report on Dudu Yai, I want to introduce you to our new ‘arrival.’ Tadaaaa!” Delia followed his gaze.
On a wooden pallet carried by the forklift, wrapped in thick foam padding and transparent plastic, stood a jar.
It was almost as tall as Delia’s waist.
Its body was perfectly round, proportional with a slender neck and a mouth sealed with dark red wax.
Its color was visible even through the plastic, gold.
Not fake gold, not painted gold, but gold that caught the light of the antique receiving warehouse in a way only genuine, well-preserved precious metal could.
And along the jar’s entire body, from shoulder to base, gemstones were scattered.
Dark blue like a night sea.
Deep emerald green.
Black onyx that absorbed light.
No pinks, no lavenders, no soft colors, all gemstones chosen from a dark, rich spectrum, masculine in a way that was hard to describe but very easy to feel.
“Where is it from?” Delia asked, already pulling out her notebook.
“The Middle East.
More specifics haven’t been confirmed yet, the documents are still being processed by customs.” Robin walked closer as the forklift worker began removing the protective layers.
“What we know is that this jar was found in sealed condition.
Never opened since discovery.” Delia took notes.
“Sealed by red wax in a good condition.” “Any identification?” Delia asked again.
Robin pointed to the jar’s shoulder section, now exposed from the plastic.
There, carved with a different tool from the decorative engravings at the bottom, the grooves were deeper, more deliberate, as if someone had wanted to ensure this writing could not be erased by time.
A row of Arabic letters formed neatly arranged sentences.
Delia approached, tilting her head.
She began to analyze…
She recognized the Arabic script from an elective course she took in her fifth semester, Islamic and Pre-Islamic Epigraphy, though she was not fluent enough to read directly without reference help.
“I’ve already asked my colleague in the Middle Eastern Studies department to help with transliteration,” Robin said.
“But from what I could read at a glance…” he paused, then smiled with the expression of someone holding onto something interesting.
“There’s one name that’s quite clear.” “A name?
Who?” “Hassan.” Hassan’s Jar.
Delia immediately named her research object in her notebook, writing it in capital letters and underlining it twice.
The jar was moved to the second research table, adjacent to Dudu Yai’s sarcophagus, which had now been relocated to the exhibition hall.
Delia began standard procedures, visual documentation from all sides, dimension measurements, surface condition analysis, detailed gemstone recording and count.
Forty-seven gemstones, she counted three times to be sure before starting to translate the text carved on Hassan’s Jar.
Robin sat in his chair in the corner of the room, occasionally asking questions, occasionally making his own notes.
And then, from somewhere, Robin began to hum.
Quietly at first, like an unconscious reflex.
But it grew clearer, and Delia finally looked up from her notes because the melody was so familiar.
“A whole new world…” “Mr.
Robin,” Delia suppressed an amused laugh.
“That’s the Aladdin soundtrack!” “Indeed,” Robin showed no embarrassment at all.
In fact, he raised the volume of his humming slightly.
“A new fantastic point of view…” “Mr.
Robin!” “What?
Don’t you think it’s fitting?” Robin opened both hands toward the golden jar before them.
“An antique jar from the Middle East, the name Hassan inside, tightly sealed.
If this isn’t a setup for a jinn to come out, I don’t know what is.” Delia laughed, a laugh that came out unplanned, unrestrained, loud enough to make one of the museum staff passing in the hallway glance over briefly.
“Mr.
Robin, jinn are mythology.
We’re scientists here.” “Of course, of course…” Robin returned to his notes, but his lips were still moving softly.
Humming.
Singing softly.
“Tell me, princess, now when did you last let your heart decide…” Delia shook her head while continuing to take notes, but her smile did not fade for nearly the next hour.
The text on Hassan’s Jar turned out to be layered.
There was decorative text, verses Delia recognized structurally as standard protective formulas common in medieval Islamic tradition, carved in a circle at the jar’s base like a border.
That part was relatively easy to identify, though for accurate translation, Delia would need Robin’s colleague’s help.
But there was a second, different text on the jar’s shoulder, surrounding the name Hassan, text whose script was indeed Arabic but whose structure did not match any Arabic Delia had ever studied.
Older.
Rarer.
The words had different patterns.
Delia photographed everything, made handwritten copies in her notebook, and marked sections needing further research with red question marks.
* At three in the afternoon, Robin approached with two cups of warm tea.
“Progress?” “One clear name.
Hassan.” Delia accepted her cup with thanks.
“The decorative text is standard protective formula.
But there’s a second text on the shoulder, the script is Arabic, but the language hasn’t been identified yet.” Robin blew softly on his tea.
“Meaning?” “Meaning I’m going to be very busy tonight.” Delia sipped her tea.
“And Alexander will probably complain because I’ll forget dinner again.” Robin furrowed his brow.
“Alexander?” Delia froze.
“Uh…
That’s…
a friend.
A roommate.” Robin nodded with an expression that held more understanding than Delia would have liked, but the old man was wise enough not to ask further.
At ten minutes to four, Delia tidied her desk.
The photos of Hassan’s Jar had been transferred to her laptop.
Her notebook was already full for twelve pages.
Copies of the unidentified text had been photographed from four different angles with varying lighting to ensure all carving details were captured.
Robin had already excused himself from his office fifteen minutes ago, his ailing wife was waiting at home, and Robin could not be late for that.
Delia was alone in the research room.
She straightened her chair, made sure Hassan’s Jar was stable on the table with the correct supports, then picked up her bag.
One step toward the door…
Two steps…
Three…
She did not hear anything.
No sound emerged, no movement caught in her peripheral vision, no gust of wind that should not exist in this enclosed room.
But between her shoulder blades, there was a very specific sensation, one that could only be described as…
Being watched.
Delia stopped.
Slowly, she turned around.
The research room was empty.
The long steel table now held only Hassan’s Jar and some documentation equipment that had not been returned to the cabinet.
The white spotlight hung motionless from the ceiling.
Pale grey walls with no windows.
No one was there!
Hassan’s Jar stood exactly in its place, its red wax seal intact, its gemstones reflecting the spotlight’s light calmly.
“You’re paranoid, Delia,” she told herself.
“Side effects of spending too long researching mummies and coffins,” she added.
She turned and walked out.
Behind her, in the empty, silent research room, the spotlight’s light reflected softly off the golden jar’s surface.
And among the flashes of dark blue gemstones adorning the jar’s shoulder, positioned directly facing the door Delia had just passed through, something moved.
Not a reflection of light.
Not a shadow from outside.
A pair of eyes.
Blinking!
Blue as the ocean depths that had never been touched by sunlight.
Wide open, fully conscious, blinking occasionally, following the last steps of a girl who had just walked out the door, with a gaze containing something between surprise, curiosity, and something else that had no name yet.
A gaze that no one knew for sure how long had been stored inside that sealed jar.
Waiting…