Obligation

In the dead museum obligation sits, rusting, a suit of armor we only just found out contains a living man. Why has he been so quiet all these years? Why did he just stand there, arms at his sides? A little oil, and the joints begin to move. He takes a step, lurches off his pedestal, clanks crazily toward the front door. Sounds of frantic scraping from inside. He shakes the arm guards, they clang upon the floor. He tries to run, leggings rattling, pulls the helmet off. Standing in the doorway he is gulping fresh air like a fish. Young, eager, free, he races out into the sunlight.