No face. Just a hand—slender, pale, and wrapped in whisper-thin fabric that shimmers like dust in sunlight. It holds an egg. Not painted. Not playful. It is crafted. The shell is smooth, impossibly fine—white porcelain veined with hairline filigree in gold circuitry. Not decoration—function. The egg hovers half a centimeter above her palm, spinning almost imperceptibly. At its equator, a razor-thin band emits a soft pulse—pink fading into white, a heartbeat coded in impossible language. Tiny etched glyphs flicker in and out along the surface, rearranging in real-time, like it’s listening for a question you haven’t asked yet. There is no mouth to smile. No eyes to interpret. Only the egg, its presence somehow watching you in return. Behind the figure: only light. Empty whiteness. Clean. Eternal. Clinical. And as you stare, the glyphs stop. Just for a second. Then rearrange into a perfect mirror of your own name.