You’re halfway down the garden path when Banana Barbara meets you, a bundle in her arms wrapped in patchwork fabric and frayed orange twine. Her dress sparkles with glitter glue and colors that don’t quite match, as usual.

Without much preamble, she presses it into your hands. “Not for now,” she says, eyes darting like she’s watching something only she can see. “But when the day feels wrong in just the right way, you’ll know.”

Then she turns and disappears into her house, humming a tune that circles back on itself without ever ending.

Time passes. The bundle sits untouched—until one odd afternoon when nothing feels grounded. Maybe it’s the lopsided sky, or a shadow that doesn't belong to anything.

You finally unwrap the quilt, untie the twine, and reveal a painting. And that's when everything quietly, irreversibly begins.