A bare tree stretches upward against a wash of earthen brown, its branches skeletal yet resolute. Beneath it, stars scatter across the ground—not in the sky, but fallen, as though the heavens have quietly emptied themselves into the soil. A red apple glows with quiet gravity, a symbol of both temptation and sustenance, resting against the dark. From the edges, pale thorn-like forms press inward, sharp and spectral, suggesting both fragility and resistance. To the side, two blue chairs sit beneath a candelabrum, their flickering light casting a hush of intimacy—an invitation, or perhaps a vigil. The composition drifts between stillness and tension: stars become seeds of memory, thorns weave like unspoken boundaries, and the apple pulses at the threshold of desire. Together, these fragments form a dreamscape of cyclical return—where presence and absence, invitation and solitude, entwine in quiet perpetual motion.