Aldrich Pembrose's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Aldrich stood at the museum's main desk, a stack of dust-covered logbooks spread before him. He needed to know what had been catalogued before everything changed. His finger traced down the inventory lists—each painting, each sculpture, each piece the museum had owned. The handwriting blurred as his eyes watered. So much was gone. But here, on page forty-seven, he found it: the Chagall's last known location, west wing storage room three. His heart jumped. He grabbed his flashlight and headed toward the darkened hallway, stepping over fallen plaster and twisted metal. The storage room door hung crooked on one hinge. Inside, wooden crates lined the walls. He pried open the first one, then the second. On the third try, his light caught the edge of a gilded frame. He pulled away the protective cloth. There it was—colors still bright, canvas intact. Aldrich pressed his palm against his chest and laughed, then cried, then laughed again. One piece saved. One small victory. The museum could rebuild from this. The next morning, he stared at the Chagall propped against the museum's front wall. Finding art was only the beginning. He didn't know how to fix damaged pieces or stop them from getting worse. His fingers drummed against his leg as he thought it through. He needed to learn proper restoration techniques before he touched anything else. Someone had mentioned a library across the city, a place where old books still waited on shelves. The Forgotten Tome Haven, they'd called it. Ivy covered its walls and broken glass littered the floor, but the books inside might hold answers. Aldrich tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket and locked the museum door behind him. The walk took an hour through streets he barely recognized. When he found the library, he pushed through the heavy wooden doors. Dust floated in shafts of light from the shattered windows above. He ran his hand along the spines until he found what he needed—three thick volumes on art conservation and restoration. He carried them to a reading table and opened the first one. The pages smelled like old paper and hope. He began to read.