The Feather & the Heart

Hour 12: The Final Day Begins

The room smelled faintly of lavender and old books. Outside, the sun crept across the windowsill of the hospice, illuminating the faint motes of dust like drifting stars. Marwa Abbas Sinclair, eighty years old to the day, lay curled like a comma beneath a crocheted quilt. She’d always hated that quilt—it was itchy and mismatched—but now it was the last gift her granddaughter had made her, so she bore it.

The nurse had told her gently the night before: “A few more hours, Miss Marwa. The body's slowing down. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

What could she possibly need now?

She stared out the window. The trees beyond it danced lazily in the July breeze. Children shouted distantly at recess from the schoolyard down the hill. She wondered if they even noticed the hospice building on their walks home. She had once been one of those children. Running. Screaming. Living. The only thing different now was the slow stillness of her own limbs.

A shadow moved across the room.

Marwa turned her head—not quickly, nothing was quick anymore—but enough to see him. A tall, bald Black man stood by the wall where the sun didn’t reach. He was dressed in a worn leather jacket, black ripped jeans, and thick-soled army boots. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just nodded.

She blinked once, slowly. “You’re early.”

“I am always on time,” the man said. His voice was deep, but not in a threatening way. It was more like the sound of earth shifting. Of rocks turning under the weight of time. “But you see me now because your soul knows.”

“So you’re… Death?” she asked, then chuckled hoarsely. “Guess I always thought it’d be a woman in a cloak. Or a skeleton with a scythe.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Death is not a man. Nor a woman. Nor a skeleton. Death is simply the threshold. I am only the one who opens the door.”

She studied him. “Who are you?”

“I have gone by many names,” he replied. “In your forebears’ time and tongue: Anubis.”

She blinked again, this time slower, allowing the name to settle on her. “The Egyptian one. The one with the jackal’s head.”

“Correct,” he said. “Though I don’t wear that face unless I must. You are not frightened of me.”

“I’m eighty. I’ve seen worse faces.” She smiled crookedly. “Besides, I don’t think you’d show up just to scare an old lady. You’ve got more dignity than that.”

Anubis inclined his head.

Hour 9: A Life in Fragments

He sat at the edge of her armchair, legs crossed, hands resting on his knee. It was strange how normal he looked—like he might’ve been a professor or a biker or maybe just someone who’d seen too much of the world.

“So how does this work?” she asked. “You ferry me across the Nile or something?”

“There is no river,” he said. “Not anymore. Now there is only transition. Memory. Judgment.”

“Judgment, huh?” She looked at him sidelong. “You gonna judge me?”

“No,” Anubis said. “You will.”

She frowned.

He went on. “Your heart will be weighed against the Feather of Maat. The truth. Justice. Balance. It is not I who decide the weight.”

“What happens if it’s heavier?”

“I do not answer that.”

She considered. “And if it’s lighter?”

He said nothing.

Marwa let out a soft sigh. “So what do I do until then?”

“Speak,” Anubis said. “Say what you need to say. To me. To yourself. It is not only the heart that speaks—it is the life behind it.”

Hour 7: The Sins We Keep

“I was not a good daughter,” she whispered after a while. “Or maybe I was. I don’t know anymore.”

Anubis waited.

“My mother had a scream like glass breaking. I never figured out how to love her. When she died, I felt… nothing. That’s not how it’s supposed to be, is it?”

“Love and pain often wear the same mask,” Anubis replied.

“I told myself I was justified. That she’d earned the distance. But maybe I lied. Maybe I just didn’t want to try.” She turned her head. “Does that make my heart heavy?”

“Only truth makes it lighter,” he said.

She swallowed. “Then this might be hard.”

Hour 5: The Lovers and the Lies

“I married Thomas in ’67,” she said, eyes closed. “Tall, white, and full of opinions. My mother hated him. Maybe that’s why I married him.”

“Did you love him?”

“I did.” Her voice trembled. “But I loved Elise more.”

Anubis’s expression did not change. “Tell me about Elise.”

“She was light. Firelight. Candlelight. I met her when I was twenty-five and teaching literature at a community college. We talked about Jane Eyre and poems and revolutions. And I left her.” She winced. “I left her because I was too scared. Because I had a mortgage and a husband and a daughter. I stayed with Thomas and buried that part of me so deep it took me fifty years to even say her name out loud.”

“Do you regret it?”

She laughed. “That’s not even a question.”

Hour 3: The Little Ones

“My daughter—Leila—she’s better than I ever was. Stronger. Smarter. She raised her own kids without help, after her partner walked out. I never told her I was proud enough. Maybe she’ll know it after I’m gone.”

“She knows already,” Anubis said gently.

Marwa blinked back a sudden rush of tears. “Good.”

“Your grandchildren?”

“Marwa and Eman. Sweet kids. Marwa draws these crazy fantasy worlds with unicorns and rainbow lions. Eman wants to be a chef. I told him I’d haunt his restaurant and critique his seasoning if he forgot me.”

“You will not haunt,” Anubis said. “You will rest.”

“If I’m allowed to,” she said softly.

Hour 2: The Things We Hide

“I was sixteen when I stole a bracelet,” she whispered. “From a department store. I told myself I wanted to feel something. I walked out and no alarm rang. That was the first time I realized the world doesn’t punish everyone equally.”

“And what did you do with that knowledge?”

“Used it,” she said. “Then hated myself for it. I was arrogant. I stepped on people. I hurt a friend just because I could. Years later, I tried to make amends. But some of the people I hurt—well, I never saw them again. Couldn’t apologize. Couldn’t say anything.”

Anubis didn’t answer. He simply waited.

Marwa sniffed. “You really don’t say much.”

“Why would I interrupt what only you can confess?”

She closed her eyes. “Fair.”

Hour 1: The Final Moment

The room had grown dim. The sunlight had shifted behind clouds. Outside, thunder mumbled across the sky.

Marwa’s breathing had become shallow. Her eyes fluttered open, her voice now thinner than silk. “Is it time?”

Anubis rose. “Yes.”

“Will it hurt?”

“No.”

“Will I see Elise again?”

“I do not answer that.”

She nodded slowly. “Right. The scale comes first.”

Anubis stepped forward and offered his hand. Marwa lifted her trembling fingers into his. The moment she touched him, her body remained in the bed, but she—the soul that had once laughed, screamed, loved, and failed—rose.

She looked down at herself in astonishment. Her skin was smooth, her eyes sharp. Her body was neither young nor old—it simply was. “I look… like me.”

“You are you,” Anubis said. “In essence.”

He turned and opened a door that hadn’t existed moments ago.

Marwa followed.

The Hall of Judgment

The chamber was vast—no walls, no ceiling, only starlight above and sand below. At the center was a scale. On one side: a single white feather.

Maat’s Feather.

On the other: a stone basin shaped like a heart. Her heart.

She turned to Anubis. “I don’t feel afraid.”

“There is no fear here. Only truth.”

He guided her to the platform. “Now, the weighing begins.”

Marwa stepped forward. The feather glowed faintly with an inner radiance. Her heart sat still, dark and pulsing, carved from the story of her days.

The scale tilted.

Then steadied.

Then—nothing.

No answer. No voice from the heavens. No judgment passed.

Marwa stood there, breathless, watching the scale remain balanced—then shift the tiniest fraction. But in which direction, she could not tell.

She turned to Anubis.

His face was unreadable. “You have spoken.”

“But… is it enough?”

“That is not for me to say.”

A great wind stirred around them. The stars above flickered like candles in a chapel. The scale held still, unmoving now.

Marwa stared at it. “What happens now?”

Anubis looked at her with ancient eyes. “Now… you wait.”

Fin