A door standing alone in an empty white field, slightly ajar. Through the gap, a sliver of color that has no name—not visible on any spectrum, existing only in peripheral vision, gone when looked at directly. A figure stands near the door, body turned half toward it, half away. Not deciding whether to open it further. Protecting the half-open. Protecting the not-yet-knowing. Because behind the door might be everything, or nothing, and both answers would end the question, and the question is the only house where this particular self can live. Soft. Aching. The texture of something too honest to look at straight on.