To Steal a Weeping Widow

Alarms blared. My body only vaguely registered their call, even as they wailed and filled the gaping room.

Loud and unyielding. Sharp in the darkness. Their shrieks beat down hallowed halls, echoed off marble and crystal chandeliers, and flooded every corridor—but they were born from that room. The one hidden in the farthest reaches of the museum. The one that faced away from any sunset, and so easily succumbed to the wave of evening when it called.

The one I stood in. The clock had teetered too far. It'd spilled into early morning, yet night still pressed down from the tall ceilings. A smattering of low lights in mounted fixtures fought to chase away what darkness they could, but it was a losing battle. Even still, the delicate sources of ambience remained resolute in their duty. Their steadfast gleam was the only light at this hour. They were tasked to consistently illuminate a portion of wall.

Except it usually wasn't an empty wall. Glass crunched under my feet. It dazzled where it lay shattered on the floor, spread out like a lung-wrenching sneeze, far reaching and glistening where it'd fallen. The glow of the small lights indirectly reflected off the shards so a shimmering galaxy beckoned beneath me in the crushing darkness.

The harsh overheads soon blazed on while the alarms continued to screech. The space filled with white light, blinding me and knocking out another one of my senses momentarily. Shouts reverberated in the distance, the sounds pounding on my skull as I stared at the wall. A blank wall.

A blank wall where a priceless painting should have hung. Where it should have been alone here until tomorrow, when visitors would quietly tiptoe in to marvel its oil curves. Instead, it was gone, and the room was empty except for me. "It's gone." The words echoed so forcefully the museum swayed, or maybe that was me, unrooted and unsteady.

"They stole the Weeping Widow." Just like that, the painting was gone. Nothing could ever be the same.