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.