Lila

Dawn creeps up on you. The sunlight whispers it's time to go home again. You leap off the gallery floor and back into your frame.

Your frame is beautiful, custom carved from ebony to fit you, Perrault's final painting.

You watch as visitors walk up and down the corridors, stopping to sip wine and mumble critiques in front of the canvases. You've always wondered why they mumble, why they speak in hushed voices instead of just screaming their thoughts. You know you

would if you were standing where they were.

You listen to the exaggerated compliments from art collectors. They think you're a masterpiece— almost everyone who stands in front of you does. Everyone except the people who refuse to stay too long because they say there's too much sadness in your eyes.

"Larmes, Perrault, 1608." the plaque below you reads, but most people call you The Weeping Man.

"The Weeping Man, such sadness, such sorrow."

"Perrault can rest well in his grave knowing he created a masterpiece."

"Larmes, what a work of beauty!"

You've heard it all. But the flattery doesn't move you like it did when you were first hung up on a wall, and neither does the pity. Your life is gone. The centuries have taken away everything you knew. Time has been cruel to you. Perrault is decaying in his grave somewhere and your first gallery is a pile of rubble now. Even the witch who condemned you to this life is long gone. While your world faded, you stayed intact, preserved perfectly behind varnish and glass.

You've spent your lifetime waiting for the night to fall so you can step out of your frame and meander, but now the night bores you. You're fond of the Gleda Marquis Gallery; of course, you are. It's charming, and the other artwork is good company. But now your nightly strolls feel mundane. Their silence is filled by Lost Night

lamenting about all the fingerprint smudges on her glass and your walks with Renée through the Cassia Garden just aren't as colorful as they once were. Now the nights are as dull as the days used to be and there have been times you wished you could fade and be hidden away in a dusty warehouse somewhere far far

away. But that was all before you saw her.

You think you're imagining things, or maybe your mind conjured her up, because you see her, your favorite visitor walking into the gallery. She reminds you of your first love, Maria, a result of a Latin painter's fascination with his own first love. She was a marvel. Your love was true— so true you wished to wake the witch from her grave to thank her

for giving you a soul. You remember the nights you roamed the halls of that old Italian mansion hand in hand, how happy you were. Her skin was like velvet and her voice was like honey, but she was tender-hearted, she said your sadness was too much to bear.

She said you're cursed, no other way to explain it.

Sometimes you think she was right.

Your new love is nameless, for now. You first saw her about a month ago when she first visited the gallery. The kindness in her eyes held you captive for what felt like hours until she left. She's been back to look at you almost every day since then. You see most people once or twice in their lifetimes, but she keeps returning and her reasons are a mystery to you.

You listen as her boisterous laugh cascades down the corridor. You watch how she ignores nasty looks and shushes from the other visitors. You push away the rage you feel when the tall man she's with drapes his arm over her shoulder, or when she lingers too

long in front of another painting.

No. Jealousy is an ugly color and you won't let yourself be tainted. You've seen what it does. You know how easy it is to slip. You've been hung in rooms that forced you to witness crimes of passion. You carry the burden of knowing that sometimes all it is is a messed-up expression of love, or something that mimics it. You don't understand it, but you've seen it enough times to know it's true. You won't let yourself slip; you settle for loving her from afar.

You return from your thoughts expecting to see her standing in front of you. Instead, she's walking towards the door.

"Lila," the tall man says her name as they're walking away. Lila, Lila, Lila; a fitting name for a woman as beautiful as her.

The night falls quickly and the moon casts soft light on you. You hear the loud laughter and footsteps from the other paintings, yet you remain in your frame, completely still. You have no desire to walk or talk or do anything. You yearn for the sun to rise. You yearn to be on display if it means you'll catch a glimpse of her. Of Lila.

Months ago you felt shackled by the sunlight, but now, it's the moon that keeps you imprisoned.

The sunlight whispers "It's time to go home again." But you're already home, waiting for the doors to open so the visitors can pour in.

There she is. Your Lila. She walks in and comes to you. Her breath fogs up your glass while she tells you you remind her of a painting her father had in his library. You don't mind, you enjoy listening to her speak. She steps closer to you, but she stops and looks

at the "DON'T TOUCH THE GLASS" sign next to your plaque.

Please touch the glass.

You want to tell her you can hear her. You want to compliment her hair. You want to ask her about her father's painting. You want to leap out and have a real conversation with her. But you can't; she would recoil at the sight of you crawling out of your frame. And she hates ghosts anyway. You heard her say it to the tall man.

You're not a ghost, but you're too much like one. She wouldn't know the difference. You must stay behind the glass.

Why? Why does she keep returning to you? Maybe she's taken by the sadness in your eyes. It wouldn't be the first time someone loved your sorrow. Maybe she wants to buy you; it takes most people a while to decide. Or maybe she just likes the gallery.

She talks about her father's library more and tells you about other paintings she likes. Some are old friends of yours, and some are new names to you. Four hundred years old and you're still learning new things. The tall man comes in and they leave together arm in arm.

A cold night breeze blows through the Cassia Garden. You and Renée saunter through the flowers and swap stories about your past museums, but your mind is not in the garden. It's consumed by thoughts of Lila. It's been months since you saw her, and you

wonder why she hasn't been back. You've been watching the gallery doors, but you've been disappointed every morning.

It's because you're cursed. It has to be, right?

It's almost sunset. A woman who looks like Lila walks through the gallery doors and turns around the corner. Your mind is playing tricks on you, it can't be her. The woman's footsteps are those of someone twice Lila's age, and she's much thinner. Or maybe it

is, maybe you haven't gotten a good enough look at her.

You have to pull yourself together.

The gallery doors are wide open and the sun is shining through. A long shadow appears on the corridor floor, and you look up to see the tall man walking toward you. He's walking with another man, a shorter man. The shorter man stretches his arms to remove you from the wall and as he comes closer, you realize that he's a familiar face. He works there.

You can't see, you're wrapped in something, though you can't tell what. You're moving, but you're not being jostled around like you're being carried by someone; you're resting on a flat surface. You know this feeling, you're in a vehicle.

Does this mean... you've been bought? You don't get sold often. Your owners like to hold on to you for a long time. You stayed at your last museum for eighty years before you were brought to Gleda Marquis. Does this mean you'll get to see Lila? Your Lila. If the tall man bought you then he must be taking you to her. You'll get to hear her laugh somewhere it won't be met with shushing. You'll get to be held captive in her eyes again and maybe one day, she'll talk to you. The real you, not the one behind the glass.

It's nice to think about.

You can see now. You're hanging on a wall again, but this time, you're in a crowded room. There isn't any loud chatter or movement; everyone is seated and facing forward. There are paintings on all the walls, it looks like an art collection. You're

at the back of the room, you look forward to see what they're all looking at. There's a painting on an easel decorated with white carnations. It's a portrait of Lila. You notice more carnations around the room and that's when you see the casket. You're at a funeral, Lila's funeral.