Chapter 617

The heavy doors of the City Art Gallery groaned as they sealed shut, the final echoing click signaling the end of visiting hours and the beginning of Mariana's illicit night.

She pressed herself deeper into the alcove behind a colossal marble statue, holding her breath until the last security guard's footsteps faded into silence.

Timor-Leste felt a world away, a sun-drenched memory against the biting chill of the cavernous museum halls.

Her heart pounded a frantic tattoo against her ribs, a drumbeat of defiance and desperation. Twenty-four years, and this was where life had led her: hiding in shadows, banking on the anonymity of a major city to conceal her illegal stay.

Rent was exorbitant, jobs were scarce, and the gallery, with its promise of warmth and shelter, had become her sanctuary for the night. She was not a criminal, she told herself, just resourceful.

Once the silence settled, thick and undisturbed, she crept out from her hiding place. Moonlight filtered through the skylights, casting long, skeletal shadows from the sculptures and pedestals.

The air was different now, cooler, heavier with the scent of dust and old canvas, a perfume of ages. During the day, the museum throbbed with life, the murmuring of crowds, the soft shuffles of feet, the occasional bright laugh. At night, it was a mausoleum, holding its breath.

She found her way to the Hall of European Masters, drawn by the promise of a velvet bench in front of a sprawling landscape painting she had admired earlier. It depicted a misty valley, the kind that made you believe in fairies and forgotten gods.

As she settled onto the bench, she noticed a small, framed card affixed discreetly to the wall beside the painting. It wasn't part of the exhibit description.

Intrigued, she leaned closer, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. In elegant script, it read: Rules for the Night Watch. Below, in smaller print, were listed instructions. Her brow furrowed as she read them.

Rule One: Never address the subjects in the portraits. They are not listeners, but watchers.

Mariana felt a prickle of unease. Portraits watching? It sounded absurd. She continued reading.

Rule Two: In the Hall of Landscapes, silence is your shield between the hours of midnight and three. The valleys have ears.

This was getting stranger. She scanned the rest of the rules, a cold dread creeping into her stomach.

Rule Three: Do not touch the Sculptures after the moon reaches its zenith. Stone remembers touch, and stone does not forgive.

Rule Four: Should a painting alter its scene, vacate the room immediately. What changes seeks company.

Rule Five: Never permit your shadow to touch the Still Lifes in the East Wing. They hunger for substance.

Rule Six: If you hear music where there is no source, find shelter in the Hall of Antiquities. The melodies are lures.

The final rule, written in bolder letters than the rest, sent a shiver down her spine.

Rule Seven: Should you break a rule, offer recompense before dawn. The Gallery demands balance.

Recompense? Balance? This wasn't some whimsical prank; a heavy, unsettling weight settled in the pit of her stomach. These weren't visitor guidelines; they were warnings. Warnings for anyone foolish enough to be here after dark. And she was foolish.

Mariana glanced around the hall. Portraits lined the walls, stern-faced figures in elaborate costumes, their painted eyes seeming to follow her. She quickly averted her own eyes, a sudden, irrational fear taking root.

Rule One: Never address the subjects. She whispered, to herself, "Okay, no talking to paintings. Got it." The sound of her own low voice seemed too loud in the oppressive stillness.

She spent the first few hours wandering quietly, more out of restlessness than exploration. The silence was immense, broken only by the occasional creaks and groans of the old building settling around her.

The moonlight strengthened, bathing the marble floors in silver. She checked her watch – almost midnight. Time to be extra careful. Rule Two: Silence in the Hall of Landscapes between midnight and three.

She moved deeper into the Hall, passing towering canvases of mountains, forests, and oceans. The misty valley painting from before seemed different now, the shadows deeper, the mist thicker, almost breathing.

She resisted the urge to speak, to hum, to even clear her throat. Silence became a tangible thing, pressing against her ears, making her acutely aware of every beat of her heart, every soft rustle of her clothes.

The grandfather clock in the main hall chimed once, a deep, resonating gong that echoed through the museum. Midnight. The atmosphere palpably changed. It wasn't just quieter; it was… expectant. Mariana could almost feel the gallery holding its breath along with her.

A soft scraping sound from the Hall of Sculptures made her jump. She peered cautiously around the corner. The sculptures, illuminated by the zenith moon, stood like silent sentinels, their marble surfaces gleaming eerily. Rule Three: Do not touch after the moon's zenith. She had no intention of touching them. They looked cold, ancient, and somehow… aware.

Hours ticked by with agonizing slowness. The silence became oppressive, broken only by the growing unease in Mariana's chest. She found herself constantly checking the paintings, half expecting them to move, to change. Rule Four: Should a painting alter its scene, vacate the room immediately. What would that even look like? And where would she go?

Around 2:30 AM, a faint, sweet melody drifted from somewhere deep within the museum. It was like the music from a music box, delicate and alluring, tinged with a strange melancholy. Rule Six: Music where there is no source, shelter in the Hall of Antiquities.

Her pulse quickened. The Hall of Antiquities was on the other side of the museum, near the East Wing and the Still Life paintings. East Wing… Rule Five: Never permit your shadow to touch the Still Lifes. Navigating there would mean crossing through dangerous territory. But the music… it was drawing her, soft but insistent, a siren's song in the dead of night.

She hesitated. The melody grew slightly louder, more enticing. It sounded… lonely. A foolish compassion stirred within her. Maybe it was just the wind, drafts in the old building, some trick of the acoustics. But the rules… they were too specific, too ominous to ignore.

Taking a deep breath, Mariana decided to risk the East Wing. The music, whatever it was, felt wrong, dangerous. The Hall of Antiquities, with its promise of shelter, felt like the safer option, despite the risks of getting there.

She moved cautiously, hugging the shadows, her footsteps light on the marble floor. As she approached the East Wing, the air grew warmer, heavier. The faint scent of overripe fruit and something metallic, like old blood, filled her nostrils.

She peered into the dimly lit hall. Still Life paintings lined the walls, bowls of fruit, dead game birds, vases of wilting flowers. They seemed to absorb the meager moonlight, radiating a dull, muted glow of their own.

Rule Five: Never permit your shadow to touch the Still Lifes. Easy enough, she thought, staying close to the wall, keeping her shadow firmly behind her. But as she walked, the moonlight seemed to lengthen her shadow, stretching it out, making it almost impossible to control. It writhed on the floor like a separate entity, eager to escape her.

The music was clearer now, emanating from the end of the East Wing, near the Hall of Antiquities. Just a little further. She edged forward, her heart pounding, willing her shadow to stay small, to stay contained.

Suddenly, the floorboards beneath her feet creaked loudly. She froze. Had she broken the silence in the landscape hall earlier? Had the valleys heard her? Or was this something else?

As she stood motionless, her shadow, uncontrolled, elongated by some unseen force, crept forward, touching the edge of a Still Life painting. It was a painting of peaches in a porcelain bowl, bathed in an unnatural light that seemed to emanate from within the canvas itself.

The moment her shadow touched the painting, the music stopped. An oppressive silence descended, heavier than before.

The air grew thick, suffocating. From the Still Life painting, a faint shimmer arose, like heat rising from asphalt. The peaches in the bowl seemed to… swell, becoming grotesquely large, their colors deepening into bruised purples and sickly yellows.

Rule Four: Should a painting alter its scene, vacate the room immediately. What changes seeks company.

Mariana didn't hesitate. She turned and ran, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She fled back through the East Wing, away from the shifting painting, away from the oppressive silence, back towards the Hall of Landscapes. But the hall was different now.

The mist in the valley landscape paintings had thickened, swirling and churning like a living fog. The painted trees seemed to bend and twist, their branches reaching out like skeletal arms. The silence was no longer empty; it was filled with a low, guttural rumble, a sound that vibrated deep in her bones.

She had broken two rules now, maybe more. Rule Two: Silence in the Hall of Landscapes. She had made noise with her footsteps, her panicked breathing. Rule Five: Shadow on the Still Life. She had definitely broken that one.

And Rule Four: She had vacated the room, but had she done it quickly enough? Had "what changes" already taken notice?

Panic seized her. She needed to find the Hall of Antiquities, Rule Six's sanctuary. But the music was gone, her guide vanished. She was lost in a museum that had turned against her, trapped in a nightmare painted on canvas and sculpted in stone.

Desperation clawed at her throat. Rule Seven: Should you break a rule, offer recompense before dawn. Recompense… what did that even mean? Offer what? To whom? The paintings? The gallery itself?

She stumbled into the Hall of Portraits, hoping for some direction, some sign. The painted figures stared down at her, their expressions unreadable, neither hostile nor helpful. Rule One: Never address the subjects in the portraits. But what if they held the answer? What if they knew what the Gallery demanded as recompense?

"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling, the first sound she had made in hours, "Please, tell me what to do. I broke the rules. What do I offer?"

The portraits remained silent, their painted eyes cold and indifferent. But as she spoke, she noticed something. In one of the portraits, a stern-faced nobleman in velvet robes, a small object in his painted hand seemed to… shimmer. It was a tiny, golden compass. She hadn't noticed it before. Or had it just appeared?

The compass seemed to pulse with a faint light, pointing not north, but directly downwards, towards the floor. Recompense… offer… Was it pointing to something beneath her feet?

With trembling hands, Mariana began to examine the floor around the portrait. The marble was smooth, cold, unbroken. But then, she noticed a hairline fracture, almost invisible in the dim light. It formed a perfect circle, directly beneath where the compass in the painting pointed.

Kneeling down, she pressed on the circular crack. With a soft click, a section of the marble floor gave way, revealing a small, dark opening. A cold draft wafted up, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else, something ancient and indefinable.

Hesitantly, she peered into the opening. It was a narrow shaft, descending into darkness. Recompense… balance… Was this what the Gallery wanted? An offering into the depths? But what could she offer? She had nothing of value, nothing but her own life, her own fear.

Looking back at the portrait, she saw the nobleman's painted gaze fixed on the opening in the floor, his expression still stern, but now, perhaps, tinged with something else… expectation? Or was it… sorrow?

A single, terrible thought bloomed in her mind, cold and stark as the marble around her. Rule Seven: Should you break a rule, offer recompense before dawn. Recompense before dawn. Dawn was still hours away. And the opening in the floor… it was a passage downwards, a final descent.

The music started again, faint and sweet, but this time, it was different. It wasn't alluring; it was mournful, a dirge played for the lost. She understood then. The Gallery didn't want an object. It wanted a sacrifice. It wanted balance. And she, the rule-breaker, was the offering.

With a sigh that was part resignation, part despair, Mariana looked at the portrait one last time. "Thank you," she whispered to the unyielding painted face, a farewell to the silent watcher.

Then, with a heavy heart and a profound, soul-crushing sadness, she lowered herself into the darkness of the opening, the cold draft rising to meet her, the mournful music echoing above, her final lament in a gallery of silent watchers and hungry paintings, a recompense paid in full to a place that demanded balance.

A place that would now forever hold a piece of her, deep within its ancient stones, lost and forgotten before the first rays of dawn could even touch the skylights above. The rules of the painting had been absolute, and her night within them, brutally final.