Antwerp's Museum of Last Thoughts debuted in a repurposed guildhall on the Friday of a weekend. The attention from Geneva—equal parts controversy and intrigue—ensured a surge of visitors. Officials, unsettled by Geneva's " consequences " introduced new regulations: compulsory pre-screening for "tendency to melancholy " continuous emotional tracking through biometric wristbands and a rigid 15-minute visit cap, per guest.
It was of no importance.
Devon monitored from a CPB observation van, its screens displaying a patchwork of views from within the guildhall. He had been pushed aside following Geneva his liaison duties withdrawn. Pamela's orders were explicit: "Just watch. No interaction. Your background is… complicated." He was now an asset his allegiance quietly, under scrutiny.
The initial hour slipped by silently. Guests progressed in a reverent line past the forsaken items. The constructed vessel, the locked violin case, the undelivered letter. The latest centerpiece in Antwerp was a grand piano with its lid shut, topped by a solitary freshly picked white gardenia. Its plaque stated: "Duet, for One (Unperformed) 2058."
After that a change occurred.
It started not with disorder. With an intensification. A shared breath appeared to flow across the assembly evident in a unified slump of shoulders. On the monitors a surge of cool blue and gentle grey spread across the heat-map of heart rates and brain activity—a descent from active yellow and orange, into the shades of reflection and deep sorrow.
"Warning " a CPB technician whispered. "Cluster formation. Biometric drop surpassing Zone 2 limits."
"It's merely the exhibit " another agent remarked, unconcerned. "Planned sadness. They'll recover when leaving."
However they did not.
Devon observed a woman pause in front of the manuscript. She didn't glance at the sentence. Instead she gazed at the gap beneath it at the lost possibility that once existed there. Her bracelet shining with a warning violet detected a sudden fall in cortisol—not a surge of anxiety but a dive, into surrender. She remained stationary as her 15-minute alert rang.
A man faced the craftsman's glove. He was a city engineer his hands roughened by labor. He extended his hand not to grasp. To replicate the glove's hollow curve with his own active fingers. One tear slid down through the grime on his cheek. He remained silent.
The sorrow was not confined to one person. It was collective echoing. It moved from relic to spectator and among the spectators through looks of mutual weary comprehension. The quiet, in the guildhall had ceased to be respectful. It had become burdensome. It carried the burden of abandoned chances bearing down on the now.
"The engagement scores throughout the district are declining " the technician announced voice strained. "Traffic cameras reveal decelerated pedestrian flow. Café purchases have ceased. It resembles a… a decrease, in psychic energy."
On a public sentiment feed the typical buzz of reviews and scores was being overshadowed by a surge of straightforward remarks.
"I recalled my novel."
"My father's workshop is just like this."
"Why must everything be completed?"
"I feel completely exhausted."
The ultimate prompt was the piano. A young music pupil, her biometrics a whirlwind of emotions bypassed the barrier. She moved ahead raised the cover of the piano and rested her fingers on the keys. She didn't strike a note. She merely kept them there sensing the silent possibility within the tension of the strings. Then she gradually softly lowered the lid more a calm decisive thud resonating throughout the hall.
It was a gesture of reverent yielding.. It cracked something wide open.
A gentle sobbing started, not from her. From those nearby. It wasn't frantic. It was a form of letting go. A man lowered himself against the wall to rest on the ground his face buried in his hands. A pair embraced each other not with desire. From a mutual profound exhaustion. The urge to create, to succeed, to be significant escaped the space, like air escaping from a tire with a hole.
Inside the observation van the CPB commander's complexion turned pale. "This is a psychological incident. Announce it immediately."
In moments the official emblem appeared on all public and private displays throughout Antwerp paired with a stern yet soothing sound.
COGNITIVE PROTECTION BUREAU NOTICE
ANNOUNCEMENT, OF A PUBLIC COGNITIVE THREAT
LOCATION: MUSEUM VAN DE LAATSTE GEDACHTEN
RISK: ACUTE MELANCHOLIC CONTAGION
ALL INDIVIDUALS MUST VACATE THE AREA WITHOUT DELAY. PERFORM ENERGY-BOOSTING ACTIVITIES. NOTIFY AUTHORITIES, OF LETHARGIC CONDITIONS.
Sirens, yet persistent echoed outside the guildhall. The interior lights intensified to a clinical brightness. The artifacts, caught in the glare appeared fragile absurd. The enchantment was abruptly shattered.
However the harm had already occurred. When individuals were guided outside squinting in the Antwerp afternoon light they did not return to their rhythm. They drifted as if in a daze. The area, nicknamed the "Melancholy Quarter" by evening news broadcasts experienced a 40% decline in Engagement Scores over 48 hours. Efficiency measurements slipped. It represented a confined fracture, in the base of the Consensus.
Inside his van Devon got a encrypted signal. It came from Benjamin Baldric, the contact who initially led him to the concealed archive. The communication was concise:
They have demonstrated that art is a conduit. The exhibition is going to be prohibited. The following stage must not occur. Fergal's diversion has come to a close. The Chapel is waiting. Jeffrey is present. Leave before they wipe out the map.
Included was a pristine untrackable ID token along with a rail ticket heading north.
Pamela phoned him sixty minutes later. Her expression, on the display was serious, devoid of any professional façade. "Devon. The Antwerp gathering. It turned out well for them. An aesthetic turned into a weapon. The Ministry is releasing arrest orders. For Fergal. For the artist Felicity. For all connected." She stopped, observing him. "Your assessment of evolution… you were correct. It transformed into something we hardly comprehend, less combat. What's the next step?"
He met her eyes the rail pass a hidden ember tucked away in his pocket. "I'm not sure Supervisor. Perhaps it leads nowhere. Perhaps it simply ends."
He hung up the phone. Outside Antwerp was struggling to dispel its enforced gloom with community dances and increased stimulus flows, in the neighborhood plazas. It appeared frantic. Desperate.
Devon avoided returning to his apartment. He refrained from packing. Instead he headed to the station burdened by the presence of the museum's forsaken hopes. The conflict had ceased to be about recognition. It had become about sorrow. Sorrow, for everything neglected amid hectic activity. The government had labeled that sorrow a sickness.
He was going north to find its source. To a glen, and a chapel, and the man who understood the grammar of endings. The Museum of Last Thoughts was not the end. It was the final, beautiful prelude to silence.