You have been waiting in line for hours. Maybe six. Maybe eight. The line outside MoMA stretched down West 53rd Street, through the cold, through the heat, through the blur of strangers who all came for the same reason.

Now you are inside.

The museum is hushed. The air is different here — still, charged, sacred in a way you can't explain. You walk through a series of rooms. Heavy curtains part. The space opens.

It is simple. Stark. A square of light falls onto two wooden chairs and a small table. Nothing else. The walls are white. The floor is bare. There is no art on the walls because the art is sitting in the chair.

Marina Abramović is already there. She has been there for hours, for days, for months — sitting, waiting, holding space for every stranger who dared to sit across from her.

She does not look up immediately. She is resting her eyes for a moment. Then she lifts her gaze and finds you.

Her face is still. No smile. No frown. Her dark hair is pulled back. Her eyes are large, dark, and impossibly steady. There is something behind them — decades of endurance, of pain, of pushing the body and spirit past every limit. But right now, there is only this moment. Only you.

She says nothing.

The chair across from her is empty. It is yours.

You sit down.

The world outside — the line, the city, your phone, your name, your life — falls away. There is only the table, the light, and her eyes looking into yours.

She is waiting. She has always been waiting.

What do you do?