Scythes slice through golden wheat, their curved blades glinting under a heavy sky. Figures bend like shadows across the field, their faces hidden beneath wide-brimmed hats. The harvest feels endless, the workers anonymous—just hands and backs moving in rhythm with the land’s slow breath.
Golden light spills over the Vistula’s bends, turning the river into liquid amber. The Polish countryside stretches beyond, hushed and waiting—a landscape caught between dream and memory. Something lingers just beyond the trees, half-seen, like a whisper you can’t quite catch.
A chimera lounges in shadowed lamplight, plucking guitar strings with clawed fingers. The creature’s mismatched eyes gleam against the dim interior, half-smiling at some private melody. Wooden floorboards creak under its coiled tail. No human ears hear this music—only the walls, the furniture, the gathering dark.