Aldrich Pembrose stood in the ruins of what had once been Gallery Seven. His hands trembled as he held a charred picture frame, the canvas inside long burned away. The Rothko that had lived here—those deep maroons bleeding into blacks—was gone now, just ash and memory. He set the frame down carefully, precisely aligned with the crack in the floor tiles. His museum would rise again. It had to. The city needed this place, needed art to make sense of everything that had happened. He wiped his eyes, then his nose, then his eyes again. "I'll bring you back," he whispered to the empty wall. He walked through the Forgotten Gallery, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The east entrance still stood, though the roof had collapsed nearby. Persephone's marble face watched him from beneath a pile of broken concrete. He needed to start somewhere real, something people could see and touch. The west wing might still hold the Chagall if he searched carefully enough. His chest tightened with the weight of it all—every painting lost, every sculpture cracked, every visitor who would never return. But he knew what this building could become again. A place where people gathered. A place where art helped them understand what words couldn't explain. He pulled out a small notebook and began to write, his hand steady now. Step one: clear the debris. Step two: find what survived. Step three: open the doors.

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.

Aldrich spread the restoration books across a wooden table in the library's main hall. He read about temperature control, humidity levels, and proper lighting for preserved art. His finger traced diagrams showing how to stabilize cracked paint and reinforce damaged canvases. This knowledge would protect the Chagall and anything else he recovered. The museum needed more than just found objects—it needed proper care, a real system to keep art safe. He copied notes into his notebook, his handwriting cramped and urgent. When footsteps echoed behind him, he looked up to see a figure passing between the shelves. Not alone here, then. Others still searched these ruins for answers too. The thought steadied him. He closed the book and stood, tucking his notes away. The museum would need partnerships, people who understood what he was trying to build. He'd return here, learn more, maybe even convince others to help. For now, he had enough to begin the real work. Outside the library, Aldrich walked until he reached an open area where a fountain stood. The copper had turned green and brown with age, but the carved panels still showed clear scenes—people gathered in front of buildings, looking at art, listening to speakers. He moved closer and ran his fingers over the relief. These panels celebrated someone who had built something important, someone who had made culture matter to a whole community. His throat tightened. This was what he wanted for his museum—a place so vital that people would remember it, honor it, pass by it every day and think about what it meant. He pulled out his notebook and sketched the fountain's design. When the museum reopened, when people came back to see art again, maybe someone would build something like this for the place he was creating. The thought made his chest ache, but in a good way. He tucked the notebook away and headed back toward Gallery Seven. The work was waiting.