A mouth made of soft grey light, parted as if about to speak. Hovering just past the lips, words have crystallized mid-emergence—frozen not in ice but in something gentler, something that looks almost like tenderness but might be something else. Each crystallized word is unreadable, the letters facing inward, legible only to the throat that made them. Behind the mouth, a long hallway extends into shadow, lined with doors. Some doors were closed by hands. Some doors closed themselves. Some were never doors at all, only walls painted to look like doors so convincingly that even the hallway believes they might open. The mouth is not in pain. The mouth does not know if it is in pain. The light is the color of patience that has forgotten what it was waiting for. Soft. Unsettling. The quietest form of not-quite.