The smell of fresh and new cleaning products swam into my nostrils as I walked forward, into the museum. The inside was bright, yet ever so dusty as I continued walking. For some odd reason, there was nothing really on the old green walls. It seemed almost like the wall itself was the art piece, yet I knew that was far from the untold truth. And the very reason I knew, was because there was a single panting on the wall.

The painting had streaks of paint slashed accord with different abstract shapes covering the page. It felt right hanging on the wall, the green blending with the blue in the strangest of ways as it hung there on the nail.

I looked for anyone, anyone I could ask to see where the rest of the paintings had gone.

But I was alone, standing in a large room, glancing at a large wall. And I only hoped someone could help me.

The painting looked like a painting made by a famous painter only in there first or second year of painting. It looked less of a masterpiece and more like a clue of some sorts the longer I stared at it.

Then I understood. I understand all of it, the reason the museum was empty, the reason I left to come here rather then the park. I understand it all.

I walked forward to the panting and carful not to touch the paint, I turned it upside down. With a click, then a ding, it opened like a safe door.

And unfortunately, the only thing on the other side was a paper, and a body.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he mutters to himself, his voice echoing in the dim, hollow room. The place barely resembles a museum, feeling more like a neglected storage closet. Charcoal-painted walls swallow up the sparse lighting and seem to cast everything in an eerie glow.

At the center of the tiny room, under a single, narrow spotlight, sits a flimsy folding table that carries a single object—a metallic cylinder, about the length of his forearm. Its shape, along with its matte silver and black finish, give the impression of a crude flashlight, clearly lacking any obvious historical value.

Decision made, he starts to pivot to request a much deserved refund, when a light suddenly pulses from behind him. It’s accompanied by a low, vibrating hum that reverberates through the floor. He freezes and glances back. The cylinder is no longer just an inert hunk of metal. Now, under the new light, it seems to glow from within—a faint, pulsating blue aura. Intrigued, he takes a step closer, unable to shake the sense that the object is… watching him back.

He freezes, trying to remember how he got here. Coming up empty and desperate to make some sense of this experience, he reaches out slowly, fingers hovering above the object’s surface. As he does this, the hum intensifies until it’s steady, almost like a heartbeat. He senses a charge in the air, thick with something he can’t quite name. Then he hears it—a voice, soft yet unmistakable.

He recoils, breath catching in his throat. His sister? But how, why here? Confusion starts to give way to fear as the voice grows louder, more urgent, resonating through his mind. His hand trembles as he inches closer to the cylinder.

Then it happens. He feels a surge of warmth the moment his fingers brush its surface—a rush of energy shooting up his arm, filling him with a sense of calm. Of clarity,

The room begins to blur and then…

Luke wakes up.

He blinks awake, breathless, the sense of her presence lingering like an echo in his mind. Looking to his left, he stretches out both arms and sees a single person dressed in white armor—an imperial stormtrooper he recalls—holding a blaster rifle… at his head. And firing.

Several things happen at once. Red plasma bolts careen toward him, missing him by mere inches in all directions. His right hand jolts when his weapon, the fancy flashlight from the table—his lightsaber—jumps into his hand. And his left hand, extending towards the enemy, raises a middle finger.

After a pause in the fiery barrage, Luke gets up from the ground in a backwards roll, ignites his weapon, and slices the approaching stormtrooper in half.

He then sees his sister, Leia, and…

He is back… in the “museum”. He right hand is grasping the flashlight and there is a distinct blue beam extending from it. On the ground to his left is an imperial stormtrooper. On his right… the other half.

Luke retracts the beam and places the weapon back on the table. He exits the small room and passes by a figure shrouded in black. As he walks by him, giving a thumbs up at the guy who sold him the ticket, the mysterious figure, clears his throat:

Don’t forget to leave a good review on Yelp.

In the heart of the city, tucked away on a narrow, cobbled street, there stood an unassuming building with a simple wooden door. A small brass plaque on the side of the door read "The Gallery of Solitude." For years, passersby had glanced curiously at the plaque but seldom ventured inside. The few who did left with a strange expression, as if they'd glimpsed something profound and unfathomable.

The gallery was known to display only one item at a time, and that item could remain on exhibit for days, weeks, or even years. The curator, a mysterious figure with no known name or history, never spoke to visitors, only nodded them inside with a slight bow. Rumors swirled around the curator—some said they were a failed artist, others whispered they were a collector of lost souls.

One autumn afternoon, under a gray sky that threatened rain, a young woman named Elara found herself standing before the gallery's door. She had no intention of going in—she had merely been walking to clear her mind, her thoughts heavy with the weight of her own unanswered questions. Yet, as she stood there, something compelled her to push the door open and step inside.

The interior was dimly lit, with just a few soft lights casting gentle pools of illumination on the wooden floor. The air was still, almost heavy, as if it carried the weight of countless untold stories. Elara's footsteps echoed softly as she walked down the narrow corridor that led to the main exhibition hall.

As she entered, she saw it: a single spotlight illuminating a small pedestal at the center of an otherwise empty room. On the pedestal rested a simple, ordinary-looking key. It was made of brass, aged with time, its surface worn smooth by countless touches. The key lay on a piece of faded blue velvet, its presence commanding the entire room.

Elara approached slowly, her eyes fixed on the key. It was nothing like she had imagined. There were no intricate patterns, no jewels encrusting its handle, just a plain, old key. And yet, there was something about it—something that seemed to pull at her, drawing her closer.

As she stood before it, she felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the key, to feel its cool metal between her fingers. But a voice—quiet yet firm—echoed in her mind, warning her to keep her distance. She took a step back, her hand dropping to her side.

A soft shuffle of footsteps broke the silence, and the curator appeared at the edge of the room. They were draped in a long, dark coat, their face obscured by the shadows. The curator watched her with a calm, knowing gaze but said nothing.

Elara turned back to the key, her curiosity piqued. "What is it for?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper in the vast, empty space.

The curator remained silent for a moment, then finally spoke in a voice that was both gentle and deep, like a distant echo. "It opens a door."

Elara frowned. "What door?"

The curator smiled, a small, enigmatic curve of their lips. "A door that you seek. A door that you need."

The answer was both vague and strangely specific, and it left Elara with more questions than before. She stared at the key, feeling a strange connection to it, as if it held the answers to something she had not even thought to ask.

"But why is it here? Why is it the only thing in this gallery?" she pressed.

The curator's smile widened slightly. "Because it is the only thing that matters. Every person who walks through those doors sees something different. For you, it is a key. For others, it might be a letter, a photograph, or a piece of broken pottery. It is always what they need to see, even if they do not understand why."

Elara considered this, her gaze never leaving the key. "And what if I take it?" she asked softly, almost to herself.

"Then it becomes yours," the curator replied, "and the gallery is empty until something else finds its way here."

Elara reached out again, her fingers hovering over the key. She could feel its pull, as if it were calling to some deep part of her. She hesitated, torn between the desire to take it and the fear of what it might mean.

Finally, she drew her hand back. "I don't understand," she admitted, looking up at the curator.

The curator nodded, as if this were the answer they had expected. "You do not have to understand. Not now. The gallery does not exist to provide answers, but to offer what is needed in the moment. Sometimes, that is enough."

Elara nodded slowly, feeling a sense of peace settle over her. She took a step back, then turned and walked away, her mind still filled with the image of the key. As she reached the door, she glanced back one last time. The curator was already gone, vanished into the shadows.

She stepped out into the cool, crisp air, the rain beginning to fall in light, gentle drops. She pulled up her hood and walked away, her steps lighter than before. The gallery remained behind her, its single exhibit waiting for the next person who needed to see it.

And as she disappeared into the mist of the rainy street, the key sat silently on its pedestal, waiting, ever patient, for the next soul to enter and ponder its mystery.

The Rose Museum at the heart of New York City sits a delicately woven floral. Its petals are made of small fibers dyed a bright red with its tips of pink. The tourists stand behind the thick pane of glass glancing at the beautiful rose. Designed by an anonymous artist with its intentions of being gifted to a partner was then lost and sold to the public. Many stand everyday to have a glance at the mystery.

It seemed barren. That was because there was nothing truly there. Just an empty mirrored pedestal seated .3 inches away from the center of the room. Some hate modern performance art, but I think this work is quite powerful. You see, there is no performance, except the ticking of our minds breaking down in our lifelong quest to thwart insanity. Yet insanity is all around us. I think that is really the point. You are the performance. Little do you know, I have been scanning your brain since you’ve stepped in this room. I’ve seen you try to fight it off. The anger; the feeling of betrayal. This is how it goes for most. First, they pay the entrance fee- a hefty one, but slightly different for everyone. They expect greatness from the greatest exhibit in the world. They come in, ready to be inspired, enlightened, changed. Then, their mood changes as they realize what the exhibit is, or isn’t. But, it’s not until we let you out a day later that you truly understand. Then you are changed. Then you are enlightened. Then you are angry at the world. But mostly, that anger is directed at me, the creator. The one who turned the key inside the lock. The one who revealed to you the truths you would have liked to stay naïve too. So get down off your high horse, your pedestal. You are not better than me. You too, seek greatness. You too seek answers. Knowledge. What could be more valuable?

Emery had heard all the rumors, but she needed to see it in person. The entire city was abuzz with a new painting by their very own Becker Davis. He had gone from a nobody to a local celebrity to an internationally acclamied artist. Emery paused when she approached the museum’s front steps. She covered her head with a stocking cap, pulled the hood of her jacket up, and slid her sunglasses over her face. Her friends had been teasing her, saying that the painting looked exactly like her. Emery knew that was impossible, but the voice of reason in her mind seemed to argue with her, “If it’s so impossible why do you need to see it for yourself?” Emery had forced herself to wait until the last day the painting would be on display, so that she could avoid the largest of the crowds. She walked into a side section of the museum and followed the signs to Becker’s collection. When she arrived at the gallery, only one painting reamined. She knew that all of Becker’s paintings were being loaded up to be shown on tour, and his newest work would join them as soon as the museum closed. Only an old man and young woman stood near the painting as Emery joined them. The old man was dressed in work clothes and seemed to be a janitor for the museum. He greeted Emery as she joined them. “Just a reminder that the museum closes in ten minutes.” Emery nodded and said, “Yes, thank you. Really I just came to admire the painting.” The other woman nodded enthusiastically, “Becker really outdid himself this time. He calls it his muse, and I can see why. I could look at her allllll day. Aye! Look at the time I must be off!” The enthusiastic youth bounded off in a flurry, and the old man moved to mop the other side of the gallery. Then nothing stood in between Emery and the infamous painting. Emery’s mouth dropped in shock, and she slowly removed her sunglasses to see the the portrait more clearly. It was beyond a doubt a picture of her. Why?She couldn’t fathom. Becker and her hadn’t spoken in years. Nostalgia filled Emery’s aching chest of their common shared childhood. They hadn’t been close friends, but they weren’t strangers either. She remembered playing the same games and on occasion walking to school with him. His family moved in the middle of his teenage years to a nicer part of town where his art started to take off. Everyone spoke of Becker as a legendary figure who oozed artistic talent, but Emery would always just smile at that. The Becker she remembered was scared of frogs and avoided eye contact at all costs. The woman in the painting had warm chestnut brown eyes which were flicked to the side. The mouth turned upward in a smile that held any number of secrets. The portrait nailed Emery’s fiery red hair that framed her face, but what really impressed Emery was the freckles. She had always hated the splash of freckles she had been cursed to wear upon her face, but Emery looked upon them in awe now. All of her freckles were painted accurately and not randomly at all. Every. Single. One. Was in its correct place. If there was still any doubt that this woman wasn’t Emery, it was displaced when she observed the background. Glowing embers lit the painting with intensity. Emery remembered that Becker had called her “Ember” on occasion, but the nickname had never caught on with anyone else. Before Emery turned to leave, she looked at the square plague the painting hung by. She read and reread what it said until the old janitor told her it was time to go. The plague read as follows:

My muse. We were only together for a short time, but I loved you. Not in a werid way, but more in the way I love life and the love that comes just from existence. The simple kind that I believe is more powerful than the others. I saw you when you thought I didn’t. I noticed everything. My soul seemed to know yours. Even now, my soul remembers what yours felt like. Our paths crossed once, perhaps they will one day meet again and greet each other like old friends. Your life is uniquely beautiful and never forget that, my muse.

Emery left the museum feeling like the painting had been the creation of two souls finding solace in life’s turmoil. A moment captured in eternity.

Finally the day came which I was waiting for desperately. Finally I shouted . My father dropped me off at the famous museum of the world .  It looked like a a castle of a wonderfully rich queen . I opened that heavy door I entered feeling like a princess, that door automatically closed behind me. My expectations were so high I expected painting’s by old famous artists, old pottery and buildings remains. I walked in the whole palace but nothing could be seen . I started feeling terrified my legs shaked . My screams echoed but I couldn’t hear a single thing .At last I saw one item exhibited , it was a feather but why .

Then my eyes went on a door with bloody stains , it was suspicious . I walked towards it , while walking I could hear screams from the wall of the hall . I saw footsteps going in but never coming out . I saw bloody knives and guns . Still shivering, I opened the door, I felt as if my death was near. You could hear my heart beat going Thump , Thump , Thump . I opened it a at just the size of a microorganism and peeked . I stopped dead in my tracks I saw . I saw my old friend’s soul whom was murdered, she was killing others . How could she be doing something that terrible and horrible. I took the risk, I entered without being scared. She smiled as she saw me. I knew she wouldn’t do any harm to me . I asked her why why she was doing all these horrible stuff to others . She was sincere and would tell me the truth about what happened. After a moment of silence,her eyes opened and filled with tears. She while lisping said ,My whole family was murdered and now I am taking revenge , I will kill anyone who enters my museum . She raised her blood stained knife towards me . I saw her hand shake , she couldn’t control it and boom .

THE END

on display in terrarium of moss and artillery fern the last garlic snail never to be spotted just a speck of russet is sealed and completely forgotton

I wished to be held like a prized possession. Isolated. Away. Too perfect to touch.

And I wanted to be at the top of the podium. Second, And third, Too far away to compare.

And I wanted the whole world, My friends And family To revolve around me like I was the earth…

Needed to nurture. Needed to give.

But my talents and egoism Were no use in the real world. And others left me When I kept choosing myself.

I wanted to be the main attraction of the gallery. And the only way I could be it, Was if I was in the gallery alone.

Rachel absent-mindedly brushed some dust off the plinth. She glanced at her fingers before wiping it off with her other hand as she continued, equally absent-mindedly and on auto-pilot, reciting her speech to the visitors. About 20 tourists were gathered around her, examining the curious object that stood on the plinth in the middle of this large room. They listened intently as she spoke about the artifact. Rachel was the sole employee at the Museum of Egonian Culture and Historical Artifacts. The plural "Artifacts" in the name was misleading, as there was, and had always been, only one artifact in the museum's "collection". The museum was usually called by its acronym MECHA, often pronouced "metcha" so as not to confuse it with the destination of religious pilgrimage, Mecca.

The MECHA artifact was believed to be 2.5 billion years old, pre-dating the oldest known animals on Earth. Its extremely intricate structure suggested it was not a naturally occuring object, rather created by some intelligent being. It initially theorized to be of extra-terrestrial origin, but this idea was discarded after research and testing showed only terrestrial compounds in the artifact's makeup.

Such was the gist of the explanation Rachel recited to the group of tourists now gawking at the object. She had said the words so many times that she could recite them in her sleep. In fact, once she did fall asleep while speaking to a tour group, but that particular group was from some middle-eastern country. They didn't speak English so they didn't understand what she was saying. But her sleepy mumblings were just as truthful as the "real" explanation anyway.

It was somewhat amusing to Rachel to know that if the truth about the MECHA "artifact" ever got out, the public outrage might rival that following an act of terrorism. The MECHA object was actually just a large rock found on the beach by Dennis Lingon (previously a failed con-man with multiple arrests for fraud, generally unknown to the world). He had bought a warehouse, dressed it up, and put the funny looking rock in the middle of the space. The he invented an elaborate history with the ficticious Egonians at the center of it. The lie worked. People came from all over the world to see this mysterious "historical artifact" from a lost civilization. With the planet in chaos and the world at war, there was just an eagerness to believe in ... something. Rachel had discovered the truth a few months ago, when Dennis let had let it slip during a drunken stupor. Now Rachel was biding her time until she could escape this mundane job and sell her story for millions of dollars. On the other hand, the fervor for the "artifact" was so strong that there was a non-zero chance she could be lynched for blasphemy. She just had to find someone she could trust, to break the story.