Night. I couldn’t sleep. I stood by the window, staring into the darkness of the Odessa street. A soft breeze stirred the curtain. Below, life moved on — carts creaked, voices echoed faintly — but I didn’t hear any of it. Not truly.

  In my hand — a letter. Folded, unsigned, no return address. And the handwriting unmistakable. My own.

  I’d read it a hundred times already. And this time, something shifted inside me. As if an old door creaked open. And through that crack came the smell of dust. Of heat. Of fear. And memory — the one I never truly escaped.

  We didn’t seek danger. We sought knowledge. But knowledge was the trap.

  That night — back then — we were like children standing before a locked door. Excited. Restless. Certain that behind it waited something vast. Something that could change everything.

  It wasn’t curiosity. It was craving. We never said it aloud, but I saw it in their eyes: we were all drawn to it.

  When we set up camp beneath the ruins, the night was unnaturally still. Even the sand felt soft beneath our boots. The air stood suspended — as if waiting. And still… something whispered.

  Our guide, an old Berber, refused to sleep near us. He dragged his rug far from the fire and sat alone, watching the ziggurat like one watches a predator.

  By morning, he was gone. Only his barefoot tracks remained, vanishing into the dunes.

  And we… we went inside.

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  The entrance gave way easily. The stone shifted with unnatural grace, as if it had waited to be moved.

  Behind it — a corridor, narrow, sloping sharply down. Each step echoed in our chests. The lanterns carved shapes out of the dark: symbols, carvings, script we couldn’t read — yet recognized.

  Sumerian cuneiform. No one was surprised. Somehow, we had all expected it.

  Then — the main chamber.

  A perfect circle. Smooth walls, polished floor. Not a grain of dust. And in the center — an object. A sarcophagus? A control panel? An altar?

  No one knew. But every one of us felt it: it was for us.

  That’s when it began.

  Professor Becker — our linguist — suddenly laughed. Loud, hollow. Then started dictating. To no one.

  Dr. Lemaitre stared at the artifact like a man in love. He whispered: “I am worthy. I understand. I am chosen.”

  I called out. Tried to pull them back. But they didn’t hear me.

  The artifact showed each of them what they craved most. And it consumed them.

  Lemaitre stepped forward. Laid his hands on the surface.

  Light burst forth. Greenish-white. Cold and blinding.

  He even smiled at the end.

  And then he was gone.

  No scream. No sound. Just gone. Only a blackened shadow on the stone.

  The silence that followed rang like a scream in our skulls.

  Becker collapsed. Others sobbed. I shouted: “Back! Everyone out!”

  And this time — they heard me.

  We buried the entrance with our bare hands. Rocks, beams, sand. We didn’t speak.

  But when we emerged… something was wrong.

  One man’s skin blistered like from fire. Another vomited blood. A third rolled on the ground, clawing at his throat.

  I couldn’t breathe. It felt like steam had filled my lungs. I stumbled. Someone screamed. One man tore at his own neck. Another coughed up black bile.

  The desert spun. The sky buckled.

  Then — darkness.

  I woke in a wagon. My body wrapped. Someone held my head gently. Soft voices. Water on my lips.

  It was him. Rabbi Zusya.

  He was singing — nigunim, the old Hasidic melodies with meaningless syllables. Rocking slightly, stroking my forehead, whispering:

  “Why did you go there, Chelagho? Why? Didn’t it say... didn’t it say: ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall’?”

  He wasn’t angry. Just tired. He had saved me.

  And I never forgot it.

  Since then, I often wake screaming. Because I know — knowledge may be a door.

  But there’s no promise of light behind it.

  And now… I’m standing before another door.

  And I hear the call again.

  And I don’t know if I’ll come back this time.