Witnesses to the origin of the story,

At the center stands a dark, faceless figure. Above, a single eye remains open, and unblinking. But what is seen is never fixed. Around the figure, forms shift and overlap: a floating body, a coiled rose, branching coral, animal shapes mid-metamorphosis. They are the witnesses. Memory is not archival. It is organic. It grows like the green plant rising from blue water. It is rooted, yet constantly unfurling. Details tangle, colors bleed, and edges refuse to stay still. What was once clear becomes patterned, stylized, symbolic. The origin of any story is reshaped by perception, filtered through time, and retold until the truth becomes a lie and memory becomes myth.