A girl in a patchwork coat made of stitched-together shadows sits on a swing in a forest where the trees grow upside down. Their roots twist into the sky like antlers, and their leaves are made of stained glass, casting colored light onto the moss below. She holds a jar filled with the shadows of things that no longer exist—a castle that crumbled to dust, a song sung by a voice now silent, the last breath of a dying star. A fox with a keyhole in its chest watches from the branches, its tail flicking like a metronome. Paint her as if she’s both the collector and the collected, a living archive of what the world has forgotten.