Page 27

Most of the writing is illegible.

But one line survives.

Morpheus, son of Hypnos, condemned to eternal stone for defying the Lord of Sleep.

I stare at the screen.

“Hypnos?”

Morpheus’s father.

According to Greek mythology, Hypnos rules sleep, while Morpheus governs dreams.

I scroll farther.

Another fragment catches my attention.

The prison shall endure until the broken visage is made whole by the hand that walks between dreams.

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

The broken visage.

I slowly turn toward the statue.

His damaged face stares back at me.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”

A sudden gust rattles the laboratory windows.

I glance toward the courtyard.

Outside, rain lashes the magnolia trees, and thunder rolls over Saint Street.

I look back at my laptop.

“The hand that walks between dreams?”

I laugh nervously.

“Well, that’s not ominous at all.”

* * *

By ten thirty, the museum is empty.

Jules has gone home.

The security guard is making his final rounds.

And I’m standing on a rolling platform beside Morpheus’s enormous marble head, carefully preparing the last section of his damaged cheek for restoration.

I know I should go home.

I know spending another Friday night alone with a naked statue isn’t helping my already questionable social life.