Not surprised, are you?
That's OK, the story I have to tell isn't terribly era-dependent as it's mostly character-driven.
Right now, my opening sentence seems to be:
The bag on Ptahomose's back contained all his worldly belongings, and the leather pouch clutched protectively in his arms the tools of his trade. Each step away from his mother's house shed another layer of the mischievous child he was and bore him inexorably toward the man he would become. His gait changed from carefree loose-limbed explorations to a firmer, more controlled step, as befitted a young man chosen to be a scribe in the House of Neferkhamun. Pthamose's eyes fixed themselves on his future. He didn't see his mother wave proudly from her door. He didn't even see his father keep pace with him part of the way, and didn't know when his father slowed and allowed him to walk alone; his first solo steps.
Sound fell away from him as he walked in his transformative bubble. The well wishes of friends and neighbors broke against that bubble and were soon left behind.
The call of birds in the rushes of the Nile off to his left failed to attract his attention as it would have only yesterday, when he kept a sling in his belt for hunting. Now, others would hunt for him. A scribe hunted for pleasure, not out of need.