The Sculptor (preview)

We had become experts at remaining still and quiet.  Outside the shop window cars hurried by in their race against time while pedestrians scrambled to late appointments.  A sweet bird’s song shifted my eye ever so slightly.

 I had been here for 46 years, biding my time till the great awakening.  Some years I would contemplate flexing my cold, stone fingers, but a sharp brainwave from my neighbor Harold would steady my hand.

        I was the last to be created before our Sculptor left us.  He had told us his time had come and that we should be vigilant and watchful.  His shoes had echoed across the floor without a single backwards glance.  In fact, he had been in such a hurry he forgot to lock the front door behind him...