He first laid eyes on her on a sultry, windless night when the world around him seemed still yet brimming with expectation as if something extraordinary were about to happen. He saw her standing there silvered in shimmery pale moonlight, her body poised perfectly, her face finely featured and exquisite. He felt mediocre and tried his best to mask his commonplace demeanour, but he could not stop the words that tumbled clumsily from his lips. He did not expect her to react, much less reciprocate, but he knew he had to profess what he felt deep in his heart. His coat may have been torn and his shoes dirty, but his love for her was immaculate. When he was done, he stared deeply into her unblinking, beautiful eyes, searching for something...anything. And then he thought he saw a mere hint of amused affection and he knew that for her to ever consider being with a man like him, he had to woo her in the most spectacular way he could. He visited her every night at the old museum, the place where they first met. He sang songs of love, recited odes of longing and wrote volumes dedicated to her ethereal beauty. But she spoke not a word and with every passing night, the hope in his heart grew dimmer. On the night of the fire, he was on his way to tell her he would not be visiting her anymore, he couldn’t bear the heartache. When he saw the leaping flames engulf the museum, he did not think twice, but lunged inside the burning building and searched desperately for her. The smell of melting candles flooded his nostrils as he stepped over the pools of liquefied wax. Everywhere he turned, he was met with the sight of distorted, mangled statues, their arms and legs melding grotesquely with each other. He found her lying on the ground, half buried under the charred debris. She was covered in soot, but still as beautiful as her maker had intended her to be. He lifted her in his arms and carried her home.