Museum at the End of the World by M. Frost T he door was nothing special, the wood plastered with ash, metal handle half-melted. You wouldn’t know it led to a museum. Inside, you find everything you left behind on the journey, objects captured under glass, moments rendered on canvas, projectors shedding scenes onto white walls, the images poignant— the dappled green of the tree that was the blaze of your first kiss, the empty crater on the mountain where you lost your lover to eruption. You can hear the soft hum of the machines, the subtle click as a new scene is loaded. You touch the glass, the canvas, the walls, expecting them all to glaze, to smolder, to darken with the burn. The passage to this place—throwing down boulders of joy, bubbling cauldrons of grief, venting yourself onto a torrent of satellites that rain flames on re-entry—was the greatest torture of your life. But still, you wonder why you were the one to reach the end, the once-quiet volcano of your ...
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