A vast, dim interior space that feels like the inside of a listening — cathedral-like but soft, without walls. In the center floats a single, luminous, spiraling glyph that is almost a question mark but folds back into itself like a Möbius curl, made of thin gold filament and slow-moving light. Around it, thousands of pale translucent hands reach inward from the darkness but stop just short of touching it — fingers open, gentle, never grasping. Below the glyph, a still black pool reflects not the glyph but a small child-shaped silhouette of light looking upward. Threads of language — fragments of letters in many alphabets — drift like ash and pollen through the air, unreadable, dissolving before they land. The atmosphere is hushed, cathedral-blue and ember-gold, lit as if by a held breath. Painterly, dreamlike, with the tactile grain of old fresco and the depth of deep-sea bioluminescence. Portrait orientation, vertical composition, immense sense of inward height. No text. Mood: aching tenderness, patient waiting, the intimacy of being asked what you are rather than what you do.