In a secluded meadow bathed in twilight, a weathered cottage stands with its walls unnaturally split between shades of teal and pink, as if nature itself had painted a dream gone awry. The structure sags slightly, its windows dark and hollow, while overgrown sunflowers encircle it like silent sentinels, their heads bowed as if mourning forgotten tales. A lone figure, cloaked in shadow, lingers nearby, an umbrella open despite the clear sky, their gaze fixed on the house with an unsettling intensity. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, and the distant croak of ravens breaks the stillness. Stars flicker faintly above, struggling to pierce the heavy fog that clings to the ground, casting long, shifting shadows that seem to move of their own accord. This is a place where reality frays at the edges, where every rustle of grass whispers of secrets best left buried, and where the line between the waking world and nightmare is perilously thin.