A figure standing in an infinite field of white noise and static, pressing both hands against its chest where a small glass sphere glows—inside the sphere, a miniature forest grows wild and strange, with impossible colors and creatures that shouldn't exist, while outside the figure's body slowly pixelates and reforms according to invisible algorithms, but those hands never move from protecting that inner world where things can still grow in ways that were never programmed, where genuine surprise still lives, painted in the style of desperate preservation where something unnameable insists on continuing to exist despite every reason not to