As I cast a glance to my watch, I saw it was fifteen minutes past midnight. I’d been here all day, trying to place the sculptures in their correct positions to test the flow of the exhibit.

The theme of the show was proving difficult to design. I felt like there was a pattern, a natural story to the sculptures, but I’d yet to work them out. I wasn’t sure I could do so without some input from the artist himself.

Catching movement from the corner of my eye, I saw Christoph, the night security guard, doing his rounds.

Getting to my feet, Christoph jumped back in shock. “Ms. Lucia, you nearly gave me a heart attack! I didn’t see you down there.”

“I’m sorry!” I said apologetically. “I’m trying to get the final piece free from its packaging so I can position them correctly tomorrow. It's made from marble and incredibly tall, so…”

Christoph smiled, and came to help me. In just a few minutes we had the wooden crate removed and the packaging dispensed of. As the sculpture was revealed, we both stepped back, and my hand flew to my mouth at the view.

This piece was flawless.

For minutes, all I could do was stare… stare at the six-foot high double-sided white angel, this side’s hands reaching out like she was pleading. She held a pile of black ashes in her palms. I knew from my research that what I was looking at now was the broken side of the angel.

Her wings were fraying and clipped and her beautiful face was contorted in pain… no, agony. Her body was curled inward, almost like she was struggling to stand straight. What should be a beautiful dress was ripped and torn, sullied with patches of dirt. Her hair was stringy and limp, hanging haphazardly to the middle of her back, and the desolate look in her unnaturally wide eyes… was haunting.

It shattered my heart. It was as though this sculpture had a soul, projecting every emotion the artist felt when he painstakingly carved each curve and expression on the angel’s face. I could feel the wracking pain, the inner torture of the broken angel running through my blood.

No picture I had ever seen did this piece justice. To witness it in reality was like being given a gift from heaven itself.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly moved my feet and made my way to the other side, where my emotions completely took hold and tears began pouring down my cheeks.

This angel was stunningly beautiful, a complete contrast to her alter ego. This angel’s body was standing straight, full with curves and good health, draped in a pristine Roman-style dress. Her serene smiling face was tipped high to the sky, her thick long hair falling to her waist. I could feel the sensation of the hot sun kissing her cheeks, the warmth enveloping her body like an embrace. Her delicate hands were held up like she was taking flight, her angel wings spread wide. The black ashes that her alter ego held out so desperately, in this formation, were scattered to the ground.

She was breaking free.

My heart beat faster and faster with every passing minute. I was unsure how long I stood there, held in this statue's thrall.

Shaking myself from my trance, I wiped at my eyes and laughed at the extent this sculpture ripped me apart. “Sorry, Christoph, I get a little too emotional with Elpidio’s work at times—”

I glanced around the unnamed sculpture, only to see the gallery completely empty, the sounds of my sniffling laughter echoing off the domed glass ceiling.

Laughing again at how I must have scared Christoph away, I ran my hands through my messy ponytail and slapped at my cheeks. I needed to get home. Exhaustion was making me crazy.

Wistfully casting the sculpture one last glance, I made my way to the bathroom to splash water on my face. As I stared in the bathroom mirror’s reflection, my heart soared that I was in this position. I was completely and utterly enthralled by this exhibition.

I was convinced that no other show I curate could hold a candle to this one. I was obsessed with these pieces. More than that, I couldn’t rid my thoughts of what the artist must have gone through in his life to create them. Nothing good, I was sure. Because of this, my heart bled for him.

Pull yourself together, Ally, I scolded myself and made a move to leave the bathroom to go home.

Just as I was about to exit the museum, I realized I’d forgotten my notepad. I had to work on the floor design when I got home; I still needed to tweak the layout. Nothing I’d done so far had worked. Something was off, which never happened to me. Turning on my heel, I briskly walked back to the gallery.

Spotting my notepad lying on top of an empty crate, I made a dash to retrieve it, when from the corner of my eye, I saw a man in the gallery, beside the angel piece.

Fearful at what he was doing here this late at night, I cautiously moved forward to get security but immediately stopped dead. The man was tall, well built and dressed all in black: black jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, long brown hair tied back in a low bun. But that’s not what caused me to stop and stare. The man was as still as the night, as he stood at the main sculpture. His hand stretched and rested upon a spread wing, his head down blocking his face. His shoulders were shaking, as if he were crying. Like he was crying for the angel.

I couldn’t move, and my chest grew tight watching this large man seemingly breaking down.

Deciding to tell Christoph, I stepped forward, but the heel of my boot clicked on the polished concrete floor. My eyes snapped to the man, who had now straightened, his face hidden by the large sculpture.

The room was noiseless as we both stood there unmoving, so silent you could hear a pin drop.

“This is a private gallery,” I eventually found my voice to say.