My Dearest Galatea,

Frantically searching for something lost. He had lost her, and this wasn’t the first time. She had been with him for months now and had vanished. His own blood sweat and tears, oh so many tears.

It wasn’t easy to find her either. Prayers were thrown out to Aphrodite to give him sense and direction but to no avail. Not this time. Was he being punished? Perhaps he wasn’t meant to be happy, not meant to pursue art or love.

He stopped and stared at the empty spot where she once stood. The sunlight perfectly defined the empty space, the dust still in the air.

Emptiness tended to overtake him in the past. It was an all-encompassing feeling, he hadn’t known it since her.

His hands didn't feel right not tending to her and caring for her. The ivory skin fit within his hands as if it were made for him and it was, by himself.

A servant boy, about 10 years of age, looked at the man in his distraught state and refused to walk further.

“Mr. Pyg? Where did she go? Did you take her away?” The boy questioned as he inched closer. His hand moved over the pedestal she used to stand on. His fingers trace the shape that the tops of her thighs left behind.

“Mr. Pygmalion?” he asks, eyes clearly trying to connect with his own.

The artist just stood there, unsure of what to do or say. He might have been looking at the boys' eyes, but what he really saw was the emptiness right behind him, right on that pedestal. It hadn’t been long since he found her gone, or it had been. He didn’t know how long he had been searching around his studio. All he knew was that she was not there.

The boy's eyebrows furrowed as he walked closer to his mentor. Pygmalion had been teaching him about creating when he was done cleaning his art studio, it was his favourite time of day.

He had been working on small sculptures made of the big pieces of ivory that were cut off of Pygmalion’s masterpiece. He called her that himself. It had been all that his master had focused on for months and yet…

“She is gone.” The artist finally said. His eyes did not leave the dust particles dancing around in the air where she once stood.

“I can see that, did you move her?” The boy asked sheepishly. He walked closer to Mr. Pyg and stood right next to him. Head tilted, looking up at the sun rays.

“Your studio is beautiful.” the boy said as if it were the first time he had truly seen it. She had been the object of the small boy’s attention, just as she was the master’s. For different reasons however. One looking at the craftsmanship, and the other looking at his only hope and love.

The mentor stayed silent. He did not move, nor did he agree with the boy. His studio was only beautiful with her in it.

“Help me find her.” He huffed. It was not a question, it was an order. The boy looked up at his idol with shock and nodded before rushing off. All Pygmalion knew was that his Galatea had somehow disappeared without him moving her, and that was an unforgivable reality.

The boy had spent the entire day looking through the master’s house. Admittedly, more intrigued by the chance to look through the house of his idol than actually finding the missing body. He found art everywhere, including notes to a ‘Galatea’. He assumed it was the name of Mr. Pyg’s girlfriend.

‘My Dearest Galatea,’ all the notes would read. They were plastered throughout every room of his house. His bathroom mirror, the kitchen cabinets, even his bedroom windows. And yet he had never seen a single note in the art studio.

The entire house was combed through and the sun had set a long time ago, the boy had wanted to go home but he found his master so distraught that he could not leave him alone. He cared for his master as Pygmalion cared for him.

“Maybe someone took her to the museum? As a surprise?” A voice so soft just above a whisper, just low enough not to anger the mourning artist. “They might have mistaken her for one of your sculptures… the ones you make for the town?”

Pygmalion just nodded. “Go home kid.”

The boy said his goodbyes and slowly walked out the door before running home. His footsteps rang through the walls, eager to get home.

Despite acting otherwise the artist had heard the boy’s words. It was about the only thing he could think of to check on, the museum. All day he had spent staring at the place she used to stand. He had felt their connection being shattered and he feared the worst. It wasn’t a ‘surprise’ or an ‘accident’, she was gone.

The museum was easy to break into. Old stone walls, already crumbling and without a roof. The vines carried him as if a ladder towards the sky, just before bringing him right back down again. It was easy which made it impossible to believe she was kept there. He hoped. The moonlight shone just as the sun had hours before, and the dust particles were replaced with fireflies. The museum and his art studio looked and felt the same. Places tended to imitate each other, especially when filled with so much love for art.

He walked around the old place and touched the broken-down sculptures. It was not allowed but it had always been his only way to connect with them. He could hear their story, not physically but he could. The depths of his bones hummed to him, it is what made him an artist. The hymns of Homer, the songs of Orpheus, he just had to touch a carved vase and his heart told him the rest.

The goal of his journey to this lovely place was not forgotten. His eyes were glued to the figures and shapes hoping he could recognise her there. In the middle of the museum, the most beautiful creation stood. Hope gathered in his eyes as he ran to her, yet the beauty was not his. Not his Galatea.

The moon lit up the features he had seen countless times before. He had been here since he was his students’ age. He even took the small boy here from time to time. He felt dumb knowing his hope was so strong it blinded him from using his rational mind.

He noticed her carvings, and god is she beautiful. Aphrodite encapsulated in a sculpture. She might be the goddess of beauty but she will never top his creation, his muse.

His hand reaches out for the cheekbones of the sculpture, the back of his hand softly dragging along its lines as if she were real. She did not speak to him, Aphrodite didn’t use sounds to express her gratitude for his softness and kindness. He felt her presence, as he did in almost every sculpture with a story. His fingers glided down her neck, and he knew exactly what he was feeling. Despair.

A vision keeps him in his place. A message from the goddess, his biggest supporter. Images fly through his head of him working on his creation and how she slowly but surely came to life. He had almost finished and the young boy had seen, he was there for all of it. Over the years, Pygmalion had grown fond of his servant. It was like a son he never had.

His vision was filled with him and her together. The kid had admired her just as the artist himself had. The boy looked at her as if she were a dream come true. A beautiful reminder of the influence of art and love.

Aphrodite threw a harsh reality his way. An image of the small boy’s head in his hands, just outside of his own house. Grey and white dust floating around in the air. Galatea was right there. At least Pygmalion knew now.

He ran all the way back without catching a breath. Some vines still wrapped around his ankles from when he took a tumble trying to leave the museum hastily. He ran and ran for his love, for his life.

If Aphrodite had shown him the truth, the one he felt in the deepest places of his bones and the most hollow cavity of his heart, his muse was at the boy’s house.

The tops of his shoes were scuffed and creased from crouching while sculpting all these years. The smudges looked like rays of light flashing by as he ran. It wasn’t far, but it felt like a lifetime.

He trusted Aphrodite as she guided him to his creation. She had been the main influence and biggest supporter. It felt like he had let her down, yet it was not his fault.

There she was. The sight of his Galatea could make any man lose his composure. He halted, and his eyes drifted to the sculpture on the ground. He had found her, but she was unrecognisable. Her carefully sculpted body had been shattered into pieces, and her head lay to the side.

At the sight of her, he fell to his knees. He sank onto the floor next to the boy he had learned to care for. The child seemed even smaller than before with his head in his hands as he tried to find the words to console his idol. There were none. Pygmalion reached out to a scattered piece of collarbone. His love, his life, broken into a million pieces just as his heart has.

The boy brabbled something about his parents. There had always been a disdain for Pygmalion from their end. He taught the boy too much while he was meant to work. They believed art couldn’t provide and that Pygmalion was the living proof.

They had taken her. They had broken her. Tortured her like a woman and broken her like glass. Like she had always been theirs to take. The sobbing boy tried to explain.

“We can remake her! We- I’ll help to get her back. I promise!” Pygmalion however, knew she’d never be the same. It wouldn’t be her, his Galatea.

The artist reached out and dragged his finger over the cross that the malicious parents had carved on her face. It had taken him hours to work on it. To create the beauty he had fallen for so deeply. He mourned all the moles and soft creases in her face that had been lost by this unforgivable act.

The boy needed to divert his master’s attention from the grave.

“Mr. Pygmalion. Please. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have told them.” It was no use.

The poor artist’s attention was on her. Only her. Like it had always been. His touch took him to the places he loved most. He felt the soft indents of her dimples with his thumb, and he was taken back to the sun shining in his face as he worked on her in full concentration.

“Say anything, please… I need you to get mad or sad or… anything! Please.” Tears stained the small boy’s top. He was as distraught about the loss of her as the loss of face with Pygmalion. It had not been his fault, but indirectly it had been. The boy felt it. If he hadn’t existed, she would’ve still stood right in the middle of that beautiful art studio.

Pygmalion’s tears fell in one of the carved dents of the face. It slid straight down until he carefully swiped it away from the top of her broken neck.

“My dearest Galatea…” He whispered with a lopsided smile on his face. The boy turned his head towards the master.

“The notes were for her?” He questioned as he clumsily tried to dry his face with his sleeves. “All this time?”

Pygmalion’s eyes still wet with tears turned to the boy, he was still smiling that unsettling smile. His head clearly being somewhere else entirely.

“Go inside dear boy, we will meet again.” Without hesitation, the artist stood up with the broken face in his hands, and he walked home with the remnants of what she once had been. The boy sneakily grabbed one of the broken hands and held it close to him. He fell asleep that night with the ivory hand on his heart in hopes that he did not have to carry this heavy heart alone.

That morning, the boy woke up. The hand had migrated into his and as his sleepy eyes opened, he slowly remembered the grave that was outside. It reminded him of how distraught his master must be feeling.

He did not let go of the hand for all the minutes it took for him to run to Pygmalion’s house. Nor did he let go of that piece of Galatea when he found a group of people on his master’s doorstep. The hand even stayed with him as he screamed and cried for the people to let him through because it was his master’s house. He was supposed to take care of him.

He pushed himself through the crowd even when people tried to shield the young boy from the sights inside. Everyone tried to keep him off, but he and the clasped hand managed to wrestle their way through.

Galatea’s hand was used to push and hit people, and eventually, he got what he wanted. He was inside with a bunch of people surrounding him. The sculpted hand was still in his when he took two steps forward to look inside the art studio. The ivory fingers still touched his when he finally came face to face with his idol.

The hand fell when the boy saw Pygmalion on the floor with a bloody cross cut across his face. A bloody, sharpened chisel held in the artist’s hand. Galatea’s beautiful face rested next to his. They faced eachother. His face was stained with tears of blood and broken eyes.

They looked beautiful together.

Pygmalion had always meant to devote his life to her and her only. He did exactly that. The boy just didn’t realise quickly enough. The small child’s scream was to be heard throughout the entire town. No one blamed him. A child shouldn’t have seen such a horrible sight.

The artist had killed himself in the way his love was murdered.

The boy would never blame anyone, but only himself.