A museum with glass walls, its contents visible from outside. Rich oak, mahogany displays. Old relics, feathers, claws, and white robs adorn the walls, all behind glass casings. Soft, incandescent lighting caress the items.
Two women are curators of the museum. A museum of Angels, the evidence of their existence.
I visit it, for its novelty, for the taboo curiosity that comes with an open window; especially one with a glass facade.
There is one man that visits this place often. Oddly, he resembles one of the head sculptures. He jokes about reincarnation, and that no face is unique for long. Essentially dismissing the resemblance as a coincidence.
Cave or temple discovered. He adorns some costume to mimic or appear as a beast, playing on the idea that the place is cursed/haunted. When I discovered it’s just a costume, I remove the black skin to reveal scars–markings, beautiful patterns that resemble writing. He’s recorded major events on himself, in this odd language. Despite being thousands, if not millions, of years old, he’s got a young body.
He gives me a plate, a key, that resembles a weight plate. It’s a key to one of his many homes across the world.
As I visit the museum once more, I’m overcome with sadness. It’s not just a silly museum. It’s a look into his past, battles lost and won, friends and lovers gone.