I love visitors. I know the prying eyes and the fits of laughter should be invasive, but I can’t help it. I prefer the hum of people to the echoing silence of an empty museum.

They come to witness an abomination. I pretend they’re old friends come to visit me after many years apart. They bring their cameras and their notebooks, and some of them sit awhile scribbling things on pages as they look at me through the glass. I sit on the other side and stare back. I pretend to listen as they tell me stories of the world outside.

I don’t mind the visitors. I know they seek novelty not friendship. They want a story they can tell their real friends when they go back to wherever they’re from. I know. But I don’t care, not like I used to.

I’m just glad I’m not alone.