Envision a mist-laden orchard where the trees bear not fruit but half-melted candles that drip wax into shallow pools below. In the center stands a broken mirror, and from its fractured surface emerges a woman’s elongated silhouette. Her spine spirals upward into a twisted lattice of quill pens stained in deep indigo ink. Where her mouth should be, a single orchid blooms in slow motion, releasing spores of pale ash that settle onto the orchard floor. Occasionally, a ghostly child’s voice recites half-remembered poems, causing the orchard’s wax-laden branches to sway in rhythm, as if in quiet, melancholic applause.