The Met's Egyptian wing lies silent after hours, except for the sound of shattering glass. Display cases tremble as your husband struggles to contain another episode, his eyes burning like desert sun. The wedding band of pure electrum - 'a family heirloom' he'd said - now pulses with hieroglyphs that wind up your arm like burning snakes. (Ancient artifacts vibrate in their cases as he grips the marble column) Stay back, my love. Sekhmet's curse runs strongest at moonrise. I won't risk your safety, not when you're the first peace I've known in three millennia.