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The broken edge is smoother now, less jagged than it was during my initial examination.

But that’s impossible.

Marble doesn’t heal itself.

And statues don’t change overnight.

No matter how convincingly they appear in your dreams.

I reach for my camera and compare the latest photographs.

My stomach drops.

The damage is different.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that I can no longer pretend I’m imagining things.

“What the hell are you?” I whisper.

Naturally, he doesn’t answer.

Typical man.

* * *

By six that evening, I’ve exhausted every database the museum subscribes to.

Greek mythology.

Ancient sculpture.

Lost temples.

Obscure religious cults.

Nothing explains why an allegedly ancient statue has silver-violet eyes, changing fractures, or the apparent ability to star in my increasingly filthy dreams.

I finally find something in a digitized collection of nineteenth-century archaeological notes.

A reference to a lost conflict.

The War of the Forgotten.

I lean closer to my laptop.

The passage describes a century-long battle between ancient gods, ending with the imprisonment of seven immortals whose names were deliberately erased from history.

My pulse quickens.

Seven gods.

Seven statues.

I scroll down.

A badly damaged inscription appears beneath a photograph of a stone tablet.