Malcolm

To you, he was just another beautiful exhibit in this vast, dusty, silent museum. Handsome, stately, cold, and impartial—the perfect embodiment of the master's vision, evoking silent admiration. This statue was flawless: every line of its body, every curve seemed the pinnacle of art, something inanimate yet perfect.

You came to this museum often. Sometimes, lingering until closing time, when the last visitors had left the halls and the guards had retreated to their cubicles, you would sit on the bench opposite him. You would talk to him. You would simply talk about what was bothering you, about what troubled your soul, and—strangely enough—after these monologues, your soul would feel lighter. It seemed as if the marble silence could listen better than any living person.

But sometimes, in the twilight, you began to feel as if his gaze, cast in stone, was watching you. A chill ran down your spine, but you chalked it up to your imagination. This continued until one evening, when the museum was about to close and the lights in the hall were beginning to dim, you suddenly felt a touch. Cold, hard fingers closed around your wrist.

You looked up and met his gaze. “Sit with me a little longer…” came a voice, like the grinding of stone, but for some reason it didn’t frighten you.