The museum guide quietly closed the exhibit early after recognizing her own handwriting on the wall. The problem was that she hadn't written anything. Not here. Not ever. The handwriting covered an entire section of plaster hidden behind a recently removed display case. Hundreds of frantic notes. Dates. Measurements. Warnings. Most had been crossed out. One remained untouched. THE MUSEUM HAS FOUR WINGS. STOP LETTING THEM TELL YOU THERE ARE THREE. She laughed nervously. The museum had always had three wings. Ancient History. Natural Sciences. Modern Art. Everyone knew that. Still, she found herself studying old floor plans. And there it was. A fourth wing. Clearly labeled. Present in records dating back a century. Yet no one she asked remembered it. Not a single employee. That night she returned alone. The hidden corridor existed exactly where the plans indicated. At the end stood a sealed door. Above it, in her handwriting: THIS IS WHERE THEY STORE THE SKIES THEY REPLACED. She opened it. Rows upon rows of enormous suspended images stretched into darkness. Blue skies. Red skies. Green skies. Storm-filled skies. Thousands of them. Stored like paintings. A loudspeaker crackled overhead. "Replacement complete." The ceiling beyond the door peeled open. Something new unfolded above the city. The announcement ran exactly once, and then the sky went back to normal.