Rain falls in heavy waves, drenching the hard ground until it becomes a marsh, a swamp, a river. A small hill rises out of the marsh. On it stands the only structure in this forgotten corner of the Earth: a ramshackle dome of corrugated iron, dead trees, old tarpaulins. There is light inside, spilling through the many cracks into the wet night. This is a dark place, a forgotten place, a place of retirement. It is also a place of creation.

I never know what my work will be before I see the stone. Like Michelangelo said, I see an angel in the stone, carve to set it free. This next stone is my largest ever.

He stands alone inside the rickety dome shell, staring at the large stone before him. The stone is marble, his favorite. It towers over him. Large lanterns hang from the roof, casting light on to the marble. The tall sculptor holds a chisel in one hand, a hammer in the other. He stands so still that he might be rock himself. For hours he simply watches the stone, hardly breathing.

The stone is good. I can see the shape of its soul, how my first cuts must be made. I can see what the stone will look like after a day, a week, a month.

He walks forward clumsily, his tall frame awkward. The chisel is set to stone, the hammer falls. The first piece of marble to fall is small, significant, soon lost amongst its brothers. He is dressed in loose rags, rusty chains, an old jacket. His hammer falls quickly, confidently. His strength defies his slender arms, his technique a contrasts to his clumsy walk.

Retirement suits me. I like it here, in the wild. It is peaceful, quiet. Even the radio waves shun this place.

The sounds of rain are interrupted by the irregular bite of steel on stone. There are no other sounds; he works in perfect seclusion. His small family knows how he works, his few friends accept that isolation is necessary for his art. His ex-employers might try to contact him, in an emergency. He hasn’t made it easy for them.

He works relentlessly, untiring. After twelve hours of carving he sits, eats a small meal. Rain creeps through the cracks in his shelter, dripping down to visit. He is pleased by this, for the rain is his muse. It forms puddles around his feet. He draws pictures in the mud with the tip of his boot.

When I was young, my foster parents introduced me to a hundred different arts, crafts, hobbies. They were worried about me; they wanted me to be normal. I picked up my first chisel when I was six years old, five foot tall.

His work sells for millions, if he lets it. He lends his elegance to places he loved best, such as his parents’ garden. His local library received beautiful statues; his old school did not. Occasionally his works are stolen, temporarily. The Company makes sure that the thieves feel the full extent of his displeasure.

He is rich, brilliant, lonely.

Creation is a mysterious thing. Inspiration comes -- or doesn’t -- at its own speed. Stone sings to me, canvas is silent, paper mute. I take stone’s gift with gratitude, respect.

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The stone begins to take shape as he works, its form flowing for him. He can see the shapes in the stone, works to reveal them. The rain beats a pattern on the roof. He stops at midnight, eats a small dinner, returns to work. He rests for an hour at dawn, dreams of past sculptures. He wakes, eats, works until midnight, rises before dawn.

This continues for days; his arms begin to ache. The stone hums as he works. His creation begins to take shape. The carving slows; he cannot afford to make any mistakes. He uses a smaller chisel.

He works until dawn on the seventh day. He is exhausted; the shape in the stone is finally revealed. There will be more work to do soon, much more. He will add the details later, polish the stone. For now it is enough; he must rest.

It may take a year to finish this work. It may take longer. My other skills are still in high demand, despite my wishing otherwise.

The rains beat a new rhythm, uneven, unhappy. The sculptor hears the roar of an engine in the distance. A kilometer away, a dark four-by-four struggles through thick mud. The sculptor waits patiently for his visitor.

A visitor. There will be no rest for me tonight; I am not pleased. My stone will wait unfinished for me.

The car battles valiantly towards the dome. The driver is desperate; it must be an emergency. A young man exits the car, bangs on the dome’s door. It opens on the third blow.

He is a stranger. This is interesting, suspicious, worrying. I hope my employers haven’t decided to completely sever our wounded connection. They don’t say goodbye nicely.

“I’m from the Company,” the stranger says, “Are you Mister Sunshine? I need your help.”

He has the Company’s mark. Not a field agent, perhaps a technician. The agent looks awkward, as well he should. He knows he is playing a dangerous game.

“Your sister sent me. Please, will you help me?”

He stares down at the stranger as if wondering what soul he could carve free from the man’s body. It is unnerving, overpowering, comforting. The stranger knows that this is the terror he will be relying on, this ragged salvation. Mister Sunshine, a dour light in the darkness. His sister named him well.

He doesn’t even have a gun. Perhaps he knows that his bullets are wasted on me? Most men would still carry one for the false comfort it gives them.

The man stranger shows him two ID books. The first is his own, showing him to be a medium level analyst.

Perhaps the Company means for him to be my new handler. I did not like my last one; he refused to dress my wounds when I crawled out of the river. He was worried I would contaminate him.

The second book contains a photo in it of a woman with dark, curly hair. She is wearing glasses, a wedding ring, a smile. He reads the lines of concern on the young stranger’s face. They are traumatic, serious, deep. She is the young stranger’s wife, abducted. The Company has given him the best assistance they can offer. They look after their own.

I love my family, preferably from a distance. My foster parents did their best. My sister is loud, brash, rude, unkind. She has found her way into the employment of the same troubled souls as I. This is her way of bringing me back into their fold, playing on my sentimental streak.

The silence is broken only by the rain as it sings a soft goodbye to the sculpture. An age goes past before he nods briefly, turns to pack away his tools. The agent finally relaxes a little, takes a moment to see the masterpiece in stone. The stone has become a man: naked, muscular, contorted. His lower body is still in the stone; the man is struggling free from it, hacking at it with a crude hammer. The man, his tools, his features, are all carved from the stone of his birth. The statue’s body looks tired as it works at its task, so lifelike that he expects to see its breath in the cold air. The details are missing, particularly around the face. The stone is unfinished, raw.

Breathtaking.