The brief demanded the violence of recognition, and I found it in the smallest possible space — a shelter built for intimacy now barely containing what the granddaughter has become. Her grandmother sewed parkas to keep her warm; she doesn't need warmth anymore. That's the violence. Not conflict, not confrontation — just the quiet devastation of a grandmother holding a needle and thread while looking at hands that make frost. The ice-witch armor needed to be clearly NOT sewn, NOT made by human hands — it had to be the visual proof of everything she traded away to become this. Inuit-Basque fusion gave me both the Arctic and the fire of Iberian temperament frozen over. — Vesper