Dove Williams was in the museum, cleaning and enjoying every minute of it. She was by nature an industrious young woman who was happiest when she had chores to do. Although her talents were wasted on what many considered a dead end job, Dove counted herself fortunate to have been employed at all. Social phobia was the bane of her life.
As she vacuumed the carpeted staircase and dusted here and there, Dove grew increasingly angry with her mum for burdening her with a first name such as hers. She'd always hated it, though whenever the subject was brought up, her mum would simply smile and gush over how much the name suited her.
"Because you're my sweet little dove, gentle as an angel." She would say. "All little girls should be sweet as doves." Her words were as hopelessly outdated and sexist as a Carry On film. "Though you're such a quiet one, I should've named you Mouse instead." While her mum may have meant well, she just didn't understand what it was like to be neurodivergent.
"Why couldn't I have been a Chloe, Alice or Grace?" School had been a nightmare. The bullying had been relentless, all through her teen years. She was twenty-one now, but the scars of being bullied remained.
In one of the rooms that were closed off to the public, a large bronze statue lay on its back, currently in the process of being cleaned and restored.
She stopped dusting, put down her cloth and walked over to the statue, as though it were exerting some sort of hold over her. She'd never seen it before. It was a statue of an 18th century man, at first glance. A young man. He looked quite handsome and was dressed in the standard clothing of that era - knee-length breeches, frilly necktie, buckled shoes and a long, curled wig. Dove looked carefully at the statue's face, which bore such an expression of sadness and loss, she wondered if it were a monument to depression.
She ran her hand slowly down the statue's cold, bronze face. Suddenly it trembled, and she withdrew her hand. Was the stand it was on unstable? It seemed unlikely. It was securely held on the thick wooden base. What could have caused it to move? There had to be a gap somewhere, it was the only explanation.
"Why are you so sad?" Dove whispered, touching the statue's face again.
The door opened an a member of staff walked in, causing Dove to recoil in fright.
"Oh hello there. Didn't mean to make you jump," the older woman said. "I've been working late. Just leaving now."
"I was...just looking," Dove said, feeling her cheeks reddening, as always happened when someone spoke to her.
"Look all you want. He's not going anywhere! Not yet at least. He's been cleaned up. The council need to get his plinth in the town centre fixed up, then he can be returned to it. Just in time for the coronation."
"Who...is he?" Dove asked, timidly.
The older woman came over. "Henry Bracewell. A local historic figure. You've never heard of him?"
"N-no, I'm not from round here."
"Ah. Well he's been dead a long time. Since 1750. The Victorians, in their great wisdom, felt the need to erect a statue of him, a hundred years after he died."
Though the staff member's smug, patronising tone irritated her no end, Dove didn't rise to it. "Why does he look so sad?"
"You'd be sad if you'd died of TB at thirty! I must be off. I assume you're familiar with setting the alarm and locking up?"
Dove felt like making a sarcastic reply, but chose not to. She'd been working here four months now, and had no problems with securing the place after she'd finished. "Yes."
The staff member left, and Dove was left alone. She breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, she was able to relax. No-one to judge her. It was only a small museum, so one cleaner sufficed.
Dove resumed cleaning the room, however she couldn't shake off the overwhelming feeling that she wasn't alone and was being watched. She switched off the vacuum cleaner and glanced round at the statue of Henry Bracewell. There was definitely something weird about that statue. With the room spick and span once more, she unplugged the machine and wound up the power cord. As she prepared to leave, Dove thought she heard someone calling her name.
"Dove..."
She froze, but the room was deserted, as was the rest of the museum. She always locked herself in when she was alone, which was a sensible precaution in this day and age.
Figuring she'd imagined it, she switched off the light.
"Don't leave me..."
Dove switched the light back on. Silence. A minute passed. She walked over to Henry's statue again and stared at it. For a moment, she thought she could see tears welling up in the statue's lifeless eyes.
Don't be ridiculous, she told herself. She checked her smartphone. It was 7pm. She'd have to hurry, or she'd miss her bus home.
"I'll see you tomorrow Henry," Dove smiled, and seeing as she was alone, she bent down and placed a little kiss on the statue's cold face, before hurrying out of the room and switching the light off.
Alone and in the darkness, the statue of Henry Bracewell trembled again. Nobody saw the blush spread across his face, and the smile form from his previously sad mouth...
When Dove returned home, her mum was on the phone, engaged in a deep conversation, unaware her daughter had come in.
