(Before Opening Time)

The boy gazed upon the world through his window. Leaning relaxedly on his tufted armchair, his caramel brown eyes darted to his right side. His dark, golden hair had been brushed to perfection, with not a single hair out of place; his oval face fair was free of acne or any blemish, looking too old to be a child but too youthful to be an adult; his thin lips were closed tightly, neither smiling nor frowning; and his physique was clothed in the finest Renaissance-era garb, made from the most expensive cloths and Egyptian cotton. In his small, bare hands, he held a single green apple. Other people passed by him in a hurry; other times they halted in front of him and stared at him for a brief moment. Unlike them, he could not move. He was frozen: confined to the canvas and its gilded frame, like all paintings were.

"Boy with Apple" was set to become the highlight of the exhibition, and thus was the most heavily guarded. A red velvet rope, supported by brass stands, set the boundary between the painting and its visitors. Though its little chamber was quiet, the same couldn't be said elsewhere. Staff members scurried around the gallery, holding canvas boxes cautiously with both hands and hanging them on their respective walls. The technicians unrolled lengthy cables and wires, taping them to the edges and corners, hiding them under vermillion red carpets and mats, before connecting the ends to small, warm, amber lamps which illuminated the multiple rooms and sections of the art gallery. The bulkier men were tasked with moving the heavier artifacts, such as the marble sculpture of Cupid reviving his lover, Psyche, and copper figures of dancing wood nymphs, which had turned bluish green after ages had passed.

Orders and commands could be heard from every corner. "Please, be careful with that," said one curator; "A little to the left. My left," said another one, as one of the handlers tried to adjust the alignment of a portrait; "Where did you keep the vases? They should've been ready for display by now!" demanded an official; "It's two hours till opening time!" announced one of the art directors. The quick pace that was evident at that time contrasted the laid-back tone of the paintings: an oil-based portrait of a little rowboat basking under a bright sun, floating calm in a deep ultramarine sea, tinged with algae green and flecks of golden light; a lone brick cottage resting on purple hills, set against a backdrop of tangerine blending with rosy red; a dandy admiring his reflection in the looking glass, a silver brush in his hand, his bright brown eyes too bothered with himself to care about the world; and a party of Roman aristocrats, lounging on silk-covered sofas, chatting as servants poured red wine into their golden goblets and brought succulent meat on silver platters.

The artworks were almost ready for display. The clock pointed at seven and twelve, signaling them to slow down.

(Peak Time)

Visitors jostled with one another to catch a glimpse of the painting. Several pairs of eyes focused intently on "Boy with Apple," scrutinizing every little detail, from the way he pinched the stem of the apple he was holding, to the patterns that were sown into his garments. A plethora of lenses snapped photographs of the portrait. Some were embedded onto the backs of mobile phones; others were protruding from large cameras. Several people were murmuring and whispering as their words contemplated the meaning behind the artwork. One man scoffed, "Who knew a prop from The Grand Budapest Hotel would attract such attention?"

Elsewhere, the gallery was teeming with tourists. Families roamed aimlessly around the area, only stopping by for a bathroom break or whenever the children found an artwork that captured their interest; couples were found congregating at the Romantic exhibit, sometimes mimicking the gestures of the individuals that were depicted; others focused on the objective of seeing or photographing as many artifacts as possible, only returning to their favorite exhibits if they felt they had any time to spare. A new wave of visitors poured into the crowded exhibition through two oak doors, walking around impatiently after having to endure a long queue. Stomp, stomp, went their heavy footsteps, trampling the velvet carpets and shaking the floor with their rumbling.

Moving from one section to another was walking between worlds. The first room welcomed the guests and introduced them to sculptures that were so lifelike, they would've been mistaken for real people. A bronze child sat on top of a dark, wooden bench, his non-blinking eyes looking straight and a slight smile carved onto his face. A bare-chested stone man perched himself on top of a rock, his knees raised to his torso, his chin resting on his right hand, his eyes squinting as though he was in deep thought. A marble statue of a female water bearer stood adjacent to the door, a toga wrapped loosely around her figure, her slender arms holding a clay water jug, her hair cascading down her back and partly obscuring her ivory visage. The other sculptures were minuscule compared to the three. The next exhibit showcased several landscapes, contained within frames of wood or brass. A snow-capped mountain ridge laid under a palette of blue; indigo waves splashed and swirled in a chaotic sea, with thundering storm clouds tossing lightning overhead; the skyline of a metropolis, its skyscrapers a dark silhouette against the setting, orange sun, beneath a canvas of tangerine and light pink; and a crystal waterfall cascading down the cliffside, a thick forest lining its sides. From that point on a series of paintings dominated the gallery. Some depicted people, others depicted creatures, or plants, and the rest showed other worlds. Whatever the subject, they drew the crowds to themselves, triggering the minds to contemplate and appreciate.