Some months later, life at the workshop had sunk into routine. For Michael, days of chiseling away—a delicate balance of force and precision. His cotton shirt and trousers soaked the blend of body sweat and marble powder.

  Leila took to general housekeeping and foot swinging from the couch. Sometimes she would wander outside the workshop and enter the other sim—the gallery. But this place disturbed her more and more as time passed.

  “You created a zoo.” She accused Michael. “Where you caged the greatest works of art and surrounded them by visitor zombies who repeat themselves on a loop.”

  “I am sorry and you are right. But I had to divert computational resources to the workshop sim. And anyway? Did you ever visit a museum? The people are the same. They never change. Only the days of the week.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Leila said. “I only visited digital museums where people place their AA art…”

  After many months, forms had begun to emerge, rough and angular. Apollo’s outstretched hand was still a crude block, and Daphne’s hair a frozen mass of stone.

  Now, the hard part began which would separate masters from imitators. Michael’s toothed chisels bit into the marble with a rhythm only he could compose. He moved swiftly, instinctively, stopping only to brush away the dust with a damp cloth.

  A fracture line appeared in Daphne’s arm. He almost panicked and cursed under his breath but adjusted by redirecting the shape.

  The studio these days fell silent. The hard chisel and hammer were no longer sounded. Instead the soft rasping of rifflers—small, fine-toothed files—against Daphne’s face, were heard like gentle whispers. Michael leaned in, his breath stirring the dust. The skin must look soft, almost warm. He rubbed the stone with pumice and fine grit, using hair brushes to sweep the residue.

  He recoiled. Something was missing. Unsatisfying. He moved to work on Apollo’s foot, his flowing hair and drapery.

  Leila stood spellbound by the emergence of Apollo out of stone. He seemed alive. The way his arm hung so naturally behind him, while the other hand gently pressed into Daphne’s waist.

  Her eyes travelled between Michael and his feverish fingers now labouring day and night to make the stone breathe, and the beauty that emerged before her.

  Michael’s shoulders and arms have bulked up in recent months due to the hard chiseling. His hands were calloused and rough. But now the same fingers performed the most delicate miracles on impossibly small marble crevices.

  Artificial Art could create a sculptor out of anyone. In the base reality, in ten minutes and a few prompts anyone could command a piece of art and call it their own. Effortlessly. But the inherent struggle was important, Leila finally understood.

  But as days passed, Michael sank deeper and deeper into his struggle. He worked tirelessly on Apollo but was fearful to touch Daphne. And Leila knew why—because of the transformation. It was impossible to achieve. How to create the the paper thin leaves out of Daphne’s fingers from pure marble, with the smallest tools, even needles. The leaves must be so delicate that light can pass through them.

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  And so one morning when Leila woke up she found Michael hunched over with his head in his hands weeping. He was up all night. And Apollo was finished in his all his glory—but not Daphne.

  “I…I…can’t do it. I can’t touch her…it will be ruined…” he wept.

  Great fear descended on Michael. That which paralysed all men on the edge of glory. Artistry was a lonely endeavour, but it needn’t be, she thought. Courage was best forged together.

  It was then when Leila unclipped her Bedouin hair and it fell in long brown curls around her face and down her shoulders.

  And she stood by the unfinished statue of Daphne and undid her robe. Her naked legs and arms assumed the position of Daphne in mid pursuit by Apollo and Leila said to Michael: “Now bring me to life.”

  Leila stood there for days. And refused to take a break. So Michael continued to sculpt without rest either. And the fatigue and insomnia gave them both the fortitude to finish the work. And when Michael finally stepped back Daphne was no longer marble—-she was movement frozen in air, in Apollo’s hand, departing the realm of flesh and dissolving into a tree.

  And even when he told Leila that it was done, she was immutable having stood for so long in one position, she herself transformed into a fossilised tree. But when Michael touched her, she instantaneously melted and collapsed into his arms. So he carried her to bed and kissed her forehead good night.

  While Leila’s projected consciousness slept, Michael polished the sculpture with wax and oils until Apollo’s curls gleamed and Daphne’s skin held the ghost of warmth. The leaves in her hair and hands were so real Michael expected them to tremble if a wind gust appeared.

  He made the marble move.

  But Leila was locked in deep slumber.

  Michael spent long hours watching her sleep. His heart deepened by a love that was so pure it was untouchable. Though she was beautiful, it was not her beauty he was in love with. Neither the glow of her skin, or the sweetness of her smile. The touch of her hand was capable of incinerating him. Because he was so high on love.

  ***

  Three days later Leila woke up. Michael greeted her with a childish smile.

  “Look!” He said. “It is done!”

  And Leila raised her head and saw the dazzling statues of Apollo and Daphne dominating the center. Rays of light from windows struck the sculpture to bathe it with a halo from the heavens.

  “It’s beautiful Michael…” Leila said.

  “Now we can go home,” he said. “You made me believe again, in a place called home. I am ready to leave this place and close up the sim.”

  “That’s great Michael,” and she jumped out of bed to get dressed. “How soon?”

  “As soon as you’re ready. I just need to copy and project the sculpture into the AA database. And once we are back in the base reality, I can retrieve it to project anywhere. As a safety, I will encrypt it so only you and I can find it in the database…” Michael’s brain was running, and he imagined a life so beautiful and full with Leila.

  He stood in front of his masterpiece with arms stretched out. Closed his eyes and concentrated. His eye lids flickered and the sculpture began to glitch, in and out, in and out. The statue was in fact a mini sim inside the larger sim. Michael willed his mind to copy it and project it into AA’s database.

  Apollo pressed his hand into Daphne’s soft abdomen one last time and then they disappeared.

  “It’s done!” Michael beamed. “Now we can go!”

  Leila took his hand they stood in the middle. For an unknown reason trepidation took over her and she said: “Michael, before we leave, maybe you…you…can kiss me?”

  “Kiss you?” He was taken a back. “I don’t know,” he stammered. “I don’t know how the mingling of two projected consciousnesses might behave…it could destabilise—-“

  But Leila didn’t wait for his objections to fully form. And she reached out and kissed his lips ever so softly. And Michael took her in his arms like Hades took Proserpina or Apollo took Daphne…and he felt he was entering a warm circle full of love and life.

  “Now…” she breathed into him, “now we sever the link…and return…”

  They closed their eyes and willed it.

  And in an instant Leila disappeared.

  But Michael was still left standing, but empty.

  Leila was gone. And so was the sculpture.

  ***