Someone stole the Weeping Widow.
The priceless artwork is gone, ripped from its place on the wall and leaving only broken glass behind. The pride of Whitehill Museum and Art Gallery fell victim to heists in the night, and the museum is determined t...
My body only vaguely registered their call, even as they wailed and filled the gaping room.
Loud and unyielding. Sharp in the darkness.
Their shrieks beat down hallowed halls, echoed off marble and crystal chandeliers, and flooded every corridor, but they were born from that room. The one hidden in the farthest reaches of the museum. The one faced away from the sunset, always so easily succumbing to the wave of evening when it called. The one I stood in.
The clock had teetered too far. It'd spilled into early morning, but night still pressed down from the tall ceilings. A smattering of low lights in mounted fixtures fought to chase away what darkness they could in a losing battle. Yet, the delicate sources of ambience remained resolute in their duty. Their steadfast gleam was the only light at this hour, consistently illuminating a portion of wall.
It usually wasn't an empty wall.
Glass crunched under my feet and dazzled where it lay shattered on the floor. It spread out like a lung-wrenching sneeze, far reaching and glistening where it fell. The glow of the small lights indirectly reflected off the shards, and a shimmering galaxy beckoned beneath me in the crushing darkness.
The harsh overheads soon blazed on as the alarms continued to screech. The space filled with white light, blinding me and knocking out another one of my senses momentarily. Shouts reverberated in the distance, the sounds pounding on my skull as I stared at the wall.
A blank wall.
A blank wall where a priceless painting should have hung. Where it should have been alone here until tomorrow, when visitors would quietly tiptoe in to marvel its oil curves. Until the morning, when guests would murmur to each other in hushed reveries and peaceful contemplation as they gazed at the contents within the frame. It should have been left alone to its toil for the night, the only exceptions the brief passings of the night guards. Instead, it was gone, and the room was empty except for me.
Whispers of future and fault snaked around my feet, silent. Solemn.
Night security flooded in, wide mouthed and gaping as they took in the scene. Me, alone in a sea of broken glass, and the wall blank in shy reveal. The guards took in my horror, my shock, my fear. They looked back at the empty section that stood naked and stripped. They listened to my voice, unnaturally loud in the room that usually only allowed faint whispers and soft exchanges.
"It's gone."
It was another echo in the large room, bouncing off the small paintings that littered the exhibit until absorbed by the speechless guards. The words reflected off white walls meant to highlight the colors of art they were built to hold. They reverberated in my chest and down to my tumultuous gut. My voice echoed so forcefully the museum swayed, or maybe that was me, unrooted and unsteady.
The guards were much faster at recovering than I, sweeping the room and shouting orders. They leapt into hurried action as they locked down the museum.
"It's really gone." My voice was as hollow as the room. Awe and shock dripped off the few words I was able to push out.
The large room at the back of the museum, the final stop of the tour, no longer held its showstopper. It no longer held the pride of Whitehill Museum and Art Gallery.
"They stole the Weeping Widow."
Just like that, the painting was gone. Nothing could ever be the same.
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