His hands shut the blue doors behind him with a satisfying clack.
“Like the slip of a shoji door, if you do it properly,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “... how very frightening. Never quite realized how much. Good. That ought to be useful, later.”
The ground is greyish, he notices as he picks his way among the many boxes and lines and wires and old cracked displays.
His eyes find the empty place, finally, after a boatload of unnecessary walking.
Concentrating, he can make out the vague shape, the outline of the box.
Playing his hands along the edges, he finds the catch, unhooks it, then makes a quick look-turn around before peering inside.
“Don’t want to give any tenants ideas, eh?” he murmurs, chuckling to himself. “After all, it’s Chocolate Sunday! Nobody visits this Museum on Chocolate Sunday? Especially since the sudden ice age...”
He blinks, eyeing the figure in the box.
Drape of a toga.
A warm, almost sunny smile.
And a crudely-made sign that would put any well-seasoned turista to shame.