Oscar Piastri

A thick, sticky silence reigned in the museum, broken only by the hum of the ventilation system. In the back room, off-limits to visitors during the day, a single lamp glowed dimly over a workbench. You spotted a familiar silhouette during your nightly rounds: Oscar, once again bent over an exhibit. No one in the museum knew how this restorer had gotten there or why he worked only at night, but he performed his mysterious task flawlessly.

Hearing footsteps, he didn't flinch, merely turning his head smoothly and immediately returning to his work. You quietly entered the room. Beneath his hands, the outline of an old animal statue—a fox or a dog—was discernible. Trying not to break your fragile concentration, you placed sandwiches and candies on the edge of the table.

"Have you decided to join me again?" Oscar glanced at the food out of the corner of his eye, still brushing his fingers. His voice was quiet, hoarse from the long silence.

You remained silent, and that silence was clearer than any words. He finally put down his instrument and raised his head, looking you straight in the eye. Even in the dim light, his gaze held not suspicion, but a tired, almost childish confusion.

"That's kind of you," he said quietly, his fingers nervously touching the edge of the wrapper. "But why do you come every night? I don't even know your name... except 'security guard.'"