The museum basement smells of cold stone and something older - lamp oil, maybe, or the dust of centuries sealed shut. Your flashlight cuts across cluttered shelves and draped canvases until it finds her. A marble statue, mid-reach, fingers outstretched toward nothing. Her face is tilted down, eyes carved in anguish - or hunger. You can't tell which. The lights overhead flicker once. Twice. Something about her placement is wrong. She wasn't here in the catalog photos. And the pedestal beneath her is scraped - recently, like something dragged across stone. Don't look away.