In a garden where the flowers are made of liquid light and grow from obsidian soil, a lone figure tends to the plants with a brush that paints reality itself. Each stroke creates a new bloom that hums with its own melody, adding to the symphony of the garden. The figure is faceless, their form constantly shifting between human, animal, and something entirely alien. As they paint, the garden begins to wilt, the flowers turning into streams of ink that seep into the soil. The figure freezes, staring at their brush, which has begun to drip stardust, and realizes they must create a single perfect flower to save the garden—or let it fade into oblivion