A single bench rests in the middle of a gold-rimmed room.
Intricate trim traces the exterior of the cavernous room, adding layers of dimension along with the sectioned wall paneling.
Fifteen framed paintings glow in the faint light of the diminished sunset along the gorgeous, adorned wall, all reflecting a humbled orange glow from the faint penetration of dipping light.
The day is almost over, and the last visitor perches on the bench, eyes trained on the fifteen framed paintings as she mindlessly soaks in the luminous glow. Fifteen paintings: some brilliant landscapes of water and sky, some of smiling portraits or ambiguous photos of ceramics and sunsets.
Some are slightly airbrushed with memories of summer dunes, other frames showcase the same girl throughout the decades. She is merely an imprint in time, transported from one frame to the next, unaware of the years between each painting.
The girl in the frames is a decade jumper with the unique ability to spin time. And, in this case, time unraveled so quickly from her grip that one moment she was smiling crookedly in a pink and yellow tutu and the next she was reflecting on a letter she wrote at the start of her high school years.
Little plaques next to the paintings add a brief inscription regarding the frame’s contents. In the rising dusk, the last visitor can barely make out a few of the titles:
Archived Files, Head in the Clouds, Fonts of Beauty, Seascapes and Skylines…
The dying sunlight, the lost words, and the dregs of day flood the room, illuminating all of the colors in one last glow.
Although the room is becoming increasingly dark at an alarming rate—far quicker than any sunset, far quicker than any conclusion—one quote flares brightly from the plaque next to one of the remarkable paintings:
“The pictures serve as joyful memories that I reflect on occasionally. If I lined up each photo next to each other in a golden frame, the exhibit would be worthy of a spot in an art gallery, pulling moments from the good, the bad, and the ugly that I managed to capture.”
Suddenly, the light blinks. Anything filtering through the windows vanishes, vanquished by darkness, night, and a sky littered with increasingly brightening stars.
Change. Conclusion.
A single bench rests in the middle of a gold-rimmed room. Now unlit, the museum should be eerie and ominous, haunted by the ghosts and phantoms that thrive amongst somber art and history.
Instead, as the last visitor stands to leave, the memories printed on the walls make the hollow room sing with life. The fuel of memories will always transcend the darkness.
The visitor does one last gallery walk before departing forever into the chilled night air.
