A moth with gears for wings alights on the face of a broken grandfather clock in an abandoned shrine. Its body is a tiny, ticking mechanism, and where its eyes should be, there are miniature clock faces showing different times—some frozen, some spinning wildly. The shrine’s pillars are wrapped in ivy that glows faintly, as if lit from within by fireflies. In the background, a ghostly procession of figures in Edo-period clothing walks in a loop, their faces blurred like smudged ink. The moth’s wings hum with a sound like a music box playing a tune that hasn’t been written yet.