The museum seems frozen in time. Dust hangs suspended from the ceiling like a veil sewn from spider webs and diamonds. The silence is so palpable that one could sit and listen to the darkness speak. Rows and rows of dead butterflies, encased in glass, pinned on display for their killers to admire. They come in a myriad of colors and hues, from periwinkle to magenta to oxblood to tangerine, muted by the darkness but roaring with intensity under the mingling moonlight. The sight is both beautiful and macabre. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. Until - one of the butterflies stirs a wing.