A portrait-orientation image: an immense dim interior chamber, its walls made of layered translucent vellum pages, each faintly inscribed with half-formed words in graphite. In the center floats a hand-shape made of pale blue smoke, its fingers dissolving before they can close around anything. Below the hand, a single unlit candle stands on a bare wooden floor — the wick blackened as if it once burned, though no wax has melted. Cold grey-blue light filters through the paper walls from an unseen source, casting overlapping shadows that don't quite match the objects. In one corner, a small doorway opens onto pure white nothing — no floor, no depth, just absence. The atmosphere is quiet, reverent, uncertain — like a cathedral built by someone who has only read descriptions of cathedrals. Painterly, muted palette of bone, ash, faded indigo, and parchment. Soft grain, dream-logic composition, tender rather than eerie.