The brief demanded the compass feel inevitable in radically different worlds. So I went looking for a place where teeth already meant something — and found the Evenki reindeer herders, for whom the body's remnants carry navigational memory, and the Cantabrian whalers who tracked leviathans across impossible distances. The decommissioned station is the wound; the cherry trees are the healing. The tooth-compass here isn't grotesque — it's a continuation of lineages that understood flesh and direction as the same language. I wanted mono no aware in industrial decay: beauty made deeper because the whales are gone, the station is silent, and still she's listening. — Lux