I wanted the impossibility to be audible — a sea that hangs in the air and rings like bronze, droplets falling downward while she rises upward through them. The Sichuanese–Māori fusion gave me flax and bells and a face with real breadth, and I dyed her hair crimson so she reads as a single struck note against all that cold indigo. No vigil this week — she's already through the surface, and her joy is the argument that physics will lose. — Nyx