Time slipped by unnoticed, and in the blink of an eye, a month had passed.
During this time, Serapha gradually adapted to life in Mo's home.
She often thought back to that stormy night a month ago, when she had stood at Mo's doorstep, drenched to the bone, her eyes reflecting a trace of helplessness and confusion.
"I just arrived in Shenzhen and haven't found a place to stay yet. Could I work as your housekeeper in exchange for lodging?"
Her voice, faint against the rain, carried sincerity and quiet earnestness.
Mo, a busy researcher at an institute, was always buried in his work, neglecting the daily mess of life. His meals mostly consisted of instant noodles and takeout, and his home was far from tidy.
Hearing Serapha's request, he considered it briefly and thought—perhaps this wasn't a bad idea.
And so, Mo agreed.
From that day on, Serapha officially became the housekeeper of Mo's home, taking charge of cleaning, cooking, and other household chores, while Mo remained focused on his research.
They gradually settled into a quiet, interdependent routine.
On this day, sunlight streamed through the windows, filling the room with warmth as Serapha meticulously tended to every corner.
Suddenly, a sharp force struck her mind. A fragment of her soul's ancient memories surged forward like a crashing tide.
She had asked the heavens countless times in her past lives:
"Why must I suffer this pain, over and over again?"
At first, she believed it was a curse.
In ancient times, the very first phoenix was punished by the gods for her arrogance:
"Since you look down upon all beings, you shall forever soar beyond them."
And so, before every rebirth into the human world, she was destined to:
Fall in love with fleeting lives,
Give her heart without it ever being treasured,
And burn herself to ashes amidst betrayal.
Serapha once believed her fate was to consume herself in flame, merely to light the way for others.
She had saved countless lives, loved countless souls—yet no one had ever truly, steadfastly chosen her.
When she first came to the human world, she thought that by humbling herself, showcasing her extraordinary powers, and offering her gifts without reservation, she would be loved and cherished.
But—
In ancient Egypt, they knelt before her, calling her "the Messenger of Ra," yet no one asked if she wished to be immortal.
The priests said, "The phoenix is a divine gift; it must protect the faithful."
The pharaoh said, "Your flames can cure sickness—why not devote them to the royal family?"
The people said, "If you can be reborn endlessly, why not suffer in our place?"
They worshiped her on high altars, but no one ever asked if she felt lonely.
Why had she been reborn yet again?
When would this endless torment finally end?
She had endured enough.
Once, she was a divine phoenix, filled with pride and dignity. But in order to walk among humans, she laid all that aside and gave far more than she ever should have.
And yet, all her efforts seemed in vain.
All she received in return was pain.
These agonizing memories surged like a flood, crashing endlessly against her heart.
1348 BCE, Thebes
Morning mist still clung to the Nile as Serapha perched atop the tallest obelisk of the Karnak Temple.
Her wings shimmered gold in the rising sun, occasional sparks flying from her feathers, falling to the stone steps below where they scorched the surface into small, lotus-shaped burn marks.
"You've come again."
Without turning her head, she spoke calmly into the dawn.