Somewhere, in a gallery that didn’t exist, a new face appeared on the wall. Number 364. Lena’s face—the inside one.
The first image was a charcoal sketch from 1687: a woman with no face, only a smooth oval where features should be, standing ankle-deep in a river that flowed both upstream and downstream. Beneath it, in Latin: Missax, quae votum comedit — Missax, who eats the wish. 364. Missax
The next frames were more recent. Police reports. A missing persons case from 1943. A man in Wisconsin told his wife he was going to the shed for a wrench. He was gone seven seconds. When he returned, he was sixty-three years older and kept repeating, “She asked me what I really wanted. She gave it to me. I didn’t know I’d want to come back.” Somewhere, in a gallery that didn’t exist, a
On the third night, Lena sat at the table. The photograph lay before her. She picked up a pen and wrote on the back of it: “I am number 364 now, aren’t I?” The first image was a charcoal sketch from
Lena’s smirk faded. She checked the box again. There was no case file for 363. Or 365. It was as if Missax had her own private shelf in reality.
Nothing happened. She laughed at herself. Of course. It was just paper and ink.