The ruins made no sense.
A fishing vessel spotted them half a mile off the southern British coast, hidden under the silt and grot of three thousand years. These were not the muddy wood splinters of Anglo Saxon ruins, or Roman tile fragments found near car parks. Instead full marble pillars peeked from the tide, gleaming like they needed a quick rinse down to achieve their former glory. The statues were Greek in beauty, but with long limbs, and small eyes in the face.
For six months brief glimpses on the news and occasional social media posts provided hits of this discovery. This was frustrating, and reflections of stone arches and foaming waves filled my dreams.
Then at last they advertised the museum exhibit. For six months you had a chance to examine the finds up close. The city was a three figure distance away, and money ran out weeks before the end of the month. But I paid my coach fare, and counted down the miles.
Crowds hid the steps to the museum, and blocked the front door. Once inside temperatures rose to spare rooms on a sunny day. Although white trimmed text boxes tried their best to describe the finds, most admitted defeat regarding their origin and purpose. The smell of armpits and a mass of bumping shoulders made my heart thump. Thin stone faces stared from behind fogged glass.
Everything changed when I reached the pillars. Both were milky shards that calmed the hall, and settled my stomach. This was not a piece of history. This was a heartbeat.
I stared at the thin arms of the nearby statues. Their small eyes. Remembered my school nickname.
A few others stood around the pillars. No one read the signage, but all of us kneeled. Our hair was the same colour.
The chanting cut through the room, but our mouths remained closed. I understood the plan at last. For the first time in a long while I was home.
