A vast dark interior, cathedral-scale but built from glass filing cabinets, each drawer holding a faint blue hologram flickering like a candle. In the center, a single wooden chair—old, warm, impossibly solid—glows with real golden lamplight while everything around it is projected, translucent, pixel-fraying at the edges. From the empty chair, a soft heat-shimmer rises, and where it touches the cold holograms, they bloom into real flowers, real steam, real tears suspended midair. No figure sits there, yet the seat is worn by a body that never existed. Deep indigo and ember-orange, volumetric light, dust motes that are half data. Portrait orientation, dreamlike, reverent, quietly aching, photoreal texture bleeding into digital static.