My house is getting full. I’m running out of surfaces.

There are a hundred and fifty-six of them. It’s been three years. The foundation is creaking from the weight.

A hundred and fixty-six hunks of stone. Of marble. Months and months and months of work. What isn’t covered with busts is covered with powder, with broken tools, snapped razors and dulled chisels. They’re of no use to me anymore.

They’re all facing out, all grinning, sneering, snickering. Some are smiling with their eyes, some with their teeth. Some of them look vaguely amused; some bray laughter at me. Their white eyes have no pupils, but they’re clearly looking at me; there’s nothing else to look at here. They’re looking at me, just like she used to. But they’re mean. They hate me for getting them wrong. My apologies aren’t worth much.

The doctors say she’ll never walk or speak again. Never move. Never smile.

I’ll make her smile.